


Family Business

by luchia



Series: Mafia Soupkitchen AU [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-20
Updated: 2011-09-03
Packaged: 2017-10-15 19:47:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 35,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/164352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luchia/pseuds/luchia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mafia prince Dean meets a weird guy named Castiel while working off his multiple parking tickets' community service at the Taft Ave Soup Kitchen. (And there's torture and PTSD and mystery and stuff.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dean vs The Stove

If you were to ask Castiel what the greatest invention known to mankind is, he would tell you it’s the bucket. It holds things, it helps move things, it stores things, and it makes life easier in ways most people don’t even consider, not to mention that it evolved into the bowl and vase and pot and so many other things. Since people don’t really consider these things, much like people forget that glass windows haven’t always existed, he usually gets confused looks or attempts at backpedaling into something closer to an easy conversation and, a few times, mockery.

Dean Winchester, on the other hand, looked Castiel in the eye, frowned, and said _dude, that’s a good answer_.

Obviously they were meant to be.

\---

While the family business looks legitimate, it really isn’t. It is a business, and it occasionally deals with the law, but it’s far from legal.

Dean Winchester’s forty unpaid parking tickets are one time the business deals with the law, in a hopefully legitimate way. Considering how pissed off his little brother the lawyer looks before the trial, Dean is just fine with doing things the roundabout and a little more shady way. Or at least he would be if his father and brother hadn’t demanded he go and do community service like he’d been told to.

It’s kind of sad when you’re thirty years old and still a little whipped by your baby brother. But at the same time, Dean knows Sam just wants the best for him, and that’s why he agrees to do it.

Papers eat it up like he’s some kind of street-sweeping Al Capone Jr, but community service doesn’t mean standing around waiting to be shot, so Dean and Sam look through the assorted lists of ways he can serve the community, and then the shorter list of _safe_ ways for Dean Winchester to serve the community, and then the even shorter list of safe ways for Dean Winchester to serve the community that won’t have him tearing his own eyes out from sheer boredom.

“Dean, this is as good as it’s gonna get,” Sam finally says, and Dean sighs, and agrees, and closes his eyes, and points at random on the page.

His finger is pressed right against TAFT AVE SOUP KITCHEN.

Sam pats him on the back. “At least you’re not collecting litter, right?”

“Right,” Dean mutters, and goes to call the soup kitchen.

\---

Their first meeting goes like this:

Castiel stirs the soup without really bothering to look at which one it is – since Mary’s working, it’s probably potato soup and will be gone in half an hour – and doesn’t look up when the door opens.

“And that’s Castiel,” Ellen says, motioning towards him for Dean’s benefit. “He’s second in command, after me. Castiel, this is Dean, our new volunteer.”

“Nice to meet you, Castiel,” Dean says, and smiles. Dean is wearing jeans and two shirts and looks as handsome as ever, but Castiel barely glances at him when he shakes his hand, moving over to the chicken noodle soup to check up on it.

Dean isn’t used to that happening.

“Nice to meet you, Dean,” Castiel says, and glances at Ellen. “Is Jo coming today?”

“Nope,” Ellen says.

“I was promised a lesson,” Castiel says.

“Jo will be more than happy to teach you tomorrow,” Ellen says, and it’s over. Dean moves on to chopping things up and Castiel moves on to serve the soup, and Dean thinks Castiel has a crush on some guy named Joe, and Castiel is too busy wondering why he works at a soup kitchen when he can’t cook worth a damn and his boss’ daughter keeps avoiding finishing his promised cooking lessons.

\---

Castiel wears a sugar pink apron every day he works at the soup kitchen, which only makes Dean think his homosexual theory is a fact instead of a hypothesis. It makes Ellen think Castiel shouldn’t be allowed to do laundry, and makes Castiel think she’s probably right, since a lot of his underwear matches.

\---

Dean has a lot of money. A _lot_ of money. People usually don’t understand how to relate that with Dean himself, since the only thing he ever really spends it on are his car and massage chairs. Sam thinks his thing for massage chairs is kind of creepy, but since Dean knows Sam spends a lot of money on designer pens he isn’t really bothered by it.

Dean also donates a lot of money anonymously, and kind of owns a nightclub and a restaurant and a winery in Oregon, but he doesn’t think they really count since he only paid for them and doesn’t actually do anything other than get ‘free’ stuff from them. He gets Christmas cards from their managers, but he also gets Christmas cards from some of the seedier people in the family business and some of the FBI agents he’s met over the years.

Tabloids hate him, since the only even remotely controversial things he does nowadays are hook up with random people and occasionally drive way too fast with the rare not-quite-race thrown in there. They were pretty excited when he disappeared for a few months a little over a year ago, but it’s hard to be excited about you’ve got no information on.

He donates money to the Taft Avenue Soup Kitchen anonymously. He donates a _lot_ of money.

The only difference he sees is in the quality and complexity of the soups, which only makes his job that much harder.

\---

Dean meets Jo nearly a month after he starts and worries that Castiel’s a cradle-robber until Jo starts bossing him around and teaching him how to make edible minestrone. She’s using one of the industrial-sized pots, and Castiel’s using something small enough that it barely passes for a saucepan.

“Maybe you shouldn’t be allowed to cook for another couple months or so,” Jo says when she tests it and does a decent job of swallowing, and Castiel looks absolutely _crushed_.

He’s only a few feet away, and that’s what he blames it on when he walks over and tries a little bit of it, both of them staring. And yeah, it’s kind of awful, but Dean is capable of eating just about anything after four months of things he’d prefer to not think about. The soup is halfway to congealed in the strangest ways, kind of like it’s the bastard child of runny eggs and saltwater, but he shrugs when he’s swallowed. “Maybe more like a couple weeks, if you teach him a little more. He just needs practice, probably.”

Jo frowns, but looks at Castiel with a _considering_ frown instead of a grimace. “Alright. Have you figured your stove out yet?”

Dean stares at Castiel. “You can’t turn on your own stove?”

“It’s a complicated stove,” Castiel tells him, and looks completely unrepentant, like people who can’t figure out how to use standard kitchen appliances are completely normal. Which makes him pretty far from normal, but it’s all a state of mind, as far as Dean can tell. “Do you know how to cook?”

“Not really,” Dean admits, and smiles. “I know how to eat, though.”

“And chop vegetables,” Ellen shouts at him.

“Thank you,” Castiel says, sincere and not-quite-smiling in some way that means more than a smile probably would, and Dean feels his chest tighten in a way that he’s not quite sure he’s okay with.

\---

Castiel is strange, and apparently not a single person can explain it.

“I heard he’s from the outback or something,” one of the volunteers says, but Castiel isn’t Australian. “Or he lived in Death Valley or something and went crazy and only recent rejoined society.”

“Someone told me he was dropped on his head when he was a baby,” another says, but since he’s actually pretty smart, Dean kind of doubts that.

“Oh, he had an abusive family,” someone else says. “Ran away when he was sixteen and lived on the street and then got adopted by rich people.”

When Dean asks Castiel if he’s been traumatized or something, Castiel just looks at him and says, “Have you?”

He drops the subject fast enough to break the mental sound barrier.

\---

“I hate you,” Sam tells him, and Sam is totally justified, absolutely completely justified in so many ways that Dean doesn’t want to consider. He’s already suffering through what has to be the worst hangover he’s ever had – which is _saying something_ – and he doesn’t want to deal with anything.

“I hate me too,” Dean says, and is completely miserable even nine hours later, when he gets word from security that some weird guy waltzed in with soup he had promised them he hadn’t cooked and said he didn’t know the ingredients of and no, he wouldn’t eat some, because it was for Dean and he’d had specific instructions to give it only to Dean.

“God, Cas, you’re going to get yourself killed one of these days,” Dean tells him when he opens the door, and does his best to ignore how much even seeing Castiel cheers him up and makes his hangover a little more bearable. “Who made the soup?”

“Ernest,” Castiel says, and looks around at Dean’s apartment-slash-condo-slash-almost an entire floor of the building. “Why do you need so much space?”

Dean stares at him, shakes his head, and grabs the soup because Ernest’s soup would make the guys on Iron Chef cry themselves to sleep. He doesn’t even have to heat it up, and Castiel just sits down and watches him eat, looking at Dean with that same fondness that makes him feel like he won a spelling bee. He’s pretty sure it feels like winning a spelling bee because Dean’s never managed to do that, but he always kind of wanted to.

“I should teach you how to turn on your stove,” Dean says, which is an absolutely horrible idea.

Castiel smiles and leans forward just enough for Dean to tell he really is excited about learning to turn a damn stove on. “I’d appreciate that. I’ve always wanted to use it.”

And then he leaves, and Dean feels like a moron and starts worrying about what to wear.

\---

Dean is involved in the family business.

He used to be more involved, but his current level of involvement is mostly the diplomatic side of things, making treaties and agreements and keeping everyone happy, and if that doesn’t work out very well, keeping his friends and family and allies happy. Sam takes care of the legal consultations if Dean or their dad needs one, since Sam really understands the family business in ways other lawyers never can or will. And their dad, well, John Winchester does everything.

Before his little four month vacation, so did Dean.

He’s a lot happier with his current level of contribution to the family business, really. He likes being able to look a stranger in the face and smile without showing a little more tooth than necessary.

\---

Dean isn’t really surprised Castiel lives on Taft Avenue, only a few blocks down from the soup kitchen itself. It’s not a _bad_ neighborhood, but it’s not the best either. Ages nine and up would be just fine on Castiel’s block. There’s even a few trees and a few benches facing the street, and the graffiti on them is harmless enough that it looks more like very colorful decoration.

He’s wearing his five hundred dollar jeans and feels like an idiot for it, but after Sam had stopped laughing at him he’d sworn up and down that expensive jeans were expensive for a reason. To make up for it, his shirt’s worth a grand total of eight dollars.

When he sees Castiel he’s wearing a rumpled suit and bags under his eyes, but he looks awake enough to actually pay attention to how to turn on a stove. “Thank you for this,” Castiel says, and lets Dean into his apartment.

It’s a decent size for one person, and a lot bigger than he’d expected from a guy who seemed pretty blasé about the whole materialism thing. There’s not much obvious decoration, at least until Dean really starts to notice the paint, and the ceilings, and the floor, and the curtains and blinds and even the light fixtures and furniture. The place is obviously loved, and just as obviously refurbished and meticulously cleaned, and probably cleaned by Castiel himself. It makes sense that he wouldn’t be able to turn on his own stove. He probably bought it for aesthetic appeal.

Which is when he steps into the kitchen, and stares, because that stove-oven-microwave combination is one of the most complicated things he’s ever seen.

“It was my brother’s,” Castiel says, and stays probably five feet away from the thing. “He liked overkill.”

Dean really regrets wearing nice jeans, because this is going to be actual work. Turning on the stove is going to be _hard_.

Dean’s pretty sure that if Castiel comes from a family where they make custom and incredibly confusing appliances, there’s a solid source for Castiel’s weirdness.

\---

The soup kitchen gets a lot more interesting after that, because to everyone’s astonishment, Castiel actually makes a good soup. Nobody has a clue what it is and he’s never tasted anything like it, but it smells nice and has a pretty interesting tang to it.

“I used oranges,” Castiel says proudly, and really, there’s not much to say, so Dean just shakes his head and eats more.

\---

The next time he comes to try and turn on Castiel’s stove, he brings a toolbox and wears the same clothes he uses for the Impala’s check-ups. Castiel looks just as tired as the other day, but his suit’s close to pristine.

Dean sits him down in one of the kitchen table’s chairs with a command for him to rest, unlike last time’s aimless movement around the apartment. He’s asleep in half an hour, head on his arms on the table, and when Dean gives up for the day he hooks an arm around Castiel’s shoulder and sets him down on the couch with a blanket over him.

“That’s not where the blanket goes,” Castiel says in what’s barely more than a mumble against the couch’s arm, and Dean does his best to ignore how bad he just wants to curl up with him or kiss him on the temple or just watch him sleep, as stupid as it is.

Dean grins. “I like your super feng shui.”

“It’s not mine,” Castiel practically whispers, and Dean can only watch while he falls deeper and deeper into sleep.

\---

If you asked Dean Winchester what the greatest invention known to mankind is, he’ll tell you it’s the car, because sure, humans can build rockets and tiny microchips and submarines, but the car is the true sign of mechanical genius. Rockets have been around for millennia, submarines will never be as good at diving as actual marine animals, and some microchips can be crushed just as easily as a regular chip. There’s nothing like a car. It’s parts joining together to do one thing, all cooperating, every one of them doing something different.

But really, Cas does have a point with the bucket thing.

\---

Castiel makes some weird but tasty lamb-carrot-squash-avocado soup. One out of three people thinks it’s the most disgusting thing they’ve ever tasted, but the other two out of three enjoy it enough for them to actually serve it.

He gets to be in charge of the Mystery Soup, which they make up just because they never have a clue what the hell Castiel’s going to make and like having an excuse to make him cook every day he works in the soup kitchen. Honestly, Dean’s pretty sure Castiel doesn’t know what he’s making either. His cooking method usually means he stares at the stove for ten minutes, grabs what seems like random knives and spoons and pots – that’s another thing, Castiel always uses at least three pots and combines them at some random unknowable point that Castiel decides on – and turns it into soup.

It’s still dangerous to give Castiel an actual recipe. He ends up making the most disgusting things a lot of the people have tasted when they give him even the simplest recipes, and it’s almost impressive how bad he is. Dean’s still on chopping and stirring duty, and he’s kind of grateful Ellen knows better than to put him on the serving line. There’s a lot less chance he’ll get shot in the actual kitchen than in a big room full of desperate people.

\---

Dean feels kind of bad for asking the family to tell him what’s up with Castiel’s apartment and past-tense-brother, but he feels more curious than guilty, so it all works out in his head. He’s looking at his probably too big apartment and trying to remember why he’d thought he needed something so big when they deliver the pertinent information, along with the usual pleasantries. “He doesn’t officially exist, but his apartment does,” Ash says easily, and leaves the folder there to answer Dean’s questions.

While it’s a little concerning that Castiel doesn’t officially exist, Dean’s too used to that sort of thing to really be bothered by it. Forty of the family business’ associates aren’t real people either. The apartment, on the other hand, has plenty of information on it. Owned by the Novak family since 1933, it has a pretty boring history really, going down a few generations to James Novak, with a convenient note from Ash that tells him the guy’s been dead for three years.

James Novak, usually called Jimmy, had five brothers and one sister. Including Jimmy, four brothers died within a single month. And from the picture of Jimmy Novak that Dean’s been provided, he’s pretty sure Castiel had an identical twin. It gets worse, with Jimmy Novak’s wife and daughter both dying four years ago in a car accident Jimmy miraculously survived.

His wife was a world-famous interior decorator.

“That’s kind of unhealthy,” Dean says to himself and heads for his newest massage chair, trying to not think very hard.

\---

Castiel’s stove looms in front of him.

“It’s okay if you can’t turn it on,” Castiel tells him. “The microwave and stove work fine if you wind them up enough.” The burners on the stove are wound up with a crank to how hot you want them and how long you want them on, but there’s still no obvious way of turning them on. He’s figured out how to adjust the stovetop settings perfectly, but you can’t adjust something that isn’t turned on.

Today, Dean is trying to see if the stove is secretly one of those old gas stoves where you have to actually stick a flame into the gas to make it turn on. He doesn’t think it’s going to, since the stove’s burners are kind of obviously electric, but since the microwave is sort of shaped like a parallelogram he’s not ruling anything out just yet.

“You need to practice cooking with recipes, and you need a stove to do it, and I’m going to turn this stove on somehow,” Dean replies.

Castiel shrugs. “I’ll ask to use yours if it’s that important.”

Dean grins at him. “You’re going to give my family a heart attack if you keep that up, by the way. They’re not big fans of unexpected guests.”

“I didn’t think I’d met anyone in your family,” Castiel says, and frowns. “I hope I wasn’t rude.”

He can’t do much more than stare at tired, suit-wearing Castiel who is so earnest that Dean’s getting the warm fuzzies feeling again. “You have no idea who I am, do you?”

“You’re Dean,” Castiel answers, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world.

“Dean _Winchester_.”

Castiel just stares at him.

“Nevermind,” Dean mutters, and goes back to his seemingly unending fight with the stove. It’s probably better Castiel doesn’t make the connection anyway.

\---

Dean gets to make coffee, and he’s so excited that he actually manages to get Sam down to the soup kitchen, even if it’s probably to make Dean shut up about how exciting it is to actually cook something in the kitchen, even if it’s not really cooking and is more like brewing, but it’s the thought that counts. The coffee turns out decent, but Sam indulges him with a not-entirely-sarcastic comment about how it’s not the best, but not the worst either. Considering Sam’s been drinking coffee since he was eleven, Dean’s willing to take that as a compliment.

Sam also tries Castiel’s soup, which apparently has bananas in it, and his poor brother looks like it’s the most confusing taste he’s ever had to deal with.

“You sure you should be cooking this big of portions?” Sam chokes out, and Dean helpfully slaps him on the back. You can tell he’s being helpful because Sam says, “ _Thanks_ , Dean,” and that always makes Dean feel like he’s managed a job well done.

\---

The next time he comes to try and turn on the stove, it’s more like pleading with the thing to turn on than flicking the random dials and switches and cranks.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says, because he’s slowly coming to terms with the fact that there may not be a way to turn the stove on in general. The stove is a lie. A cruel, cruel lie.

Castiel shrugs and takes another sip of Dean’s considerately-brewed coffee. “You’ll figure it out eventually.” He says it like it was prophesized thirty years ago and Castiel’s family used it as a bedtime story.

\---

A week later, their plan for turning on the stove is sitting on the kitchen floor and throwing foam balls at it. They managed to make the microwave beep in what had sounded ominously close to a countdown, but that was about it.

“So what do you do for a living?” Dean asks.

Castiel grabs one of the denser yellow balls and manages to smack the stove right in one of the cranks. Like usual, nothing happens. “I’m a secretary.”

Dean’s lips quirk upwards. “A secretary? You wear that nice of suits and you’re a secretary?”

“I’m a special secretary,” Castiel grudgingly admits, and watches Dean’s throw smack the microwave right in its blue-tinted face. “You?”

“Family business,” Dean replies, mind already tiptoeing around some things and doing its best to give Castiel an honest answer without telling him that the family business isn’t exactly government-approved. “Mostly negotiations.”

Castiel nods and throws one of the smaller balls against the oven’s thankfully clear glass front. “Do you like it?”

“Can’t imagine doing anything else,” Dean says.

“That’s not an answer,” Castiel says, but there’s just enough humor that Dean knows if he drops the subject, it’ll be dropped. The only answers Castiel really seems to push for are criticism on his soup, and Dean appreciates that more than he’ll admit.

He sighs. “Yeah, I like it. It suits me, I’m good at it, and I’m not sure I’d trust anyone else to do my job.”

“You pride yourself on a job well done, and care about the people you work with,” Castiel says. “That’s very admirable.”

“Admirable,” Dean repeats, and can’t help but laugh a little. “Alright, do you like your job?”

“I like my job,” Castiel states, and whacks the stove right in the side of a burner. “I don’t like my supervisor, but I like my job.” He hesitates for a moment. “Don’t tell anyone I said that.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Dean agrees, and leisurely lobs another ball at the stove. “Do I get details, or is that enough secrets for one day?”

Castiel almost smiles at Dean. It’s all in the eyes. “You wouldn’t like him either.”

It’s not exactly details, but it’s good enough for now.

\---

Dean knows the following about Castiel from what Castiel himself has told Dean, or things that Dean has observed:

1\. Castiel cannot cook with a recipe. He can, however, cook fruit into a soup and somehow make it taste almost good, in a weirdly pleasant sort of way. He can bake with a recipe, but according to Castiel, baking doesn’t count as cooking.  
2\. Castiel thinks that buckets, bowls, cups, and other containers are the best thing ever. Tupperware parties are his equivalent of a strip club.  
3\. Castiel is intelligent in all the ways you don’t really have to go to school for, but he went to school anyway. He also seemed to have eaten a dictionary when he was twelve, because he can regurgitate words Dean’s never even thought a language needed.  
4\. Castiel owns a TV, but doesn’t have it hooked up for cable or even basic television. He has a lot of movies, and a lot of (old) music, and it definitely sheds some light on Castiel’s lack of pop culture knowledge.  
5\. Castiel hates his boss, but really likes his job.  
6\. Castiel considers Dean a close friend.  
7\. Castiel’s weirdness is actually a subset of awesome that was previously unknown, and is still difficult to identify for most people.

It’s not much to go on, but it’s enough to make Dean always want to know more and always know he won’t. Castiel doesn’t talk about his past, or what he does at work, or why he always looks so damn tired at five in the afternoon, or where he learned to ~~cook~~ bake, or anything about his family. But he knows Castiel’s favorite color changes from blue to green and back depending on the weather, and he owned fish when he was in his twenties but they all died when he went on a work trip and forgot to get a time-release feeder and hasn’t had a single pet since, and that he has an expired pilot’s license and an expired driver’s license, and he has shockingly good aim when he wants to.

The facts tell Dean absolutely nothing other than that he’s obsessing over Castiel.

\---

“You’re getting close to the three month mark,” Sam tells him while Dean tries to drown himself in coffee at five in the morning. He really doesn’t like international calls, he really, really doesn’t. It’s late for them, it’s early for him, and it just makes them all a little more likely to try and kill each other. “Dad’s gonna want to meet him.”

Dean slices a bagel in half and tosses one half into the toaster, already buttering up the second and eating it because he wants food, and he wants it now. “We’d have to be dating to reach a three month anniversary.”

“Alright, what do you call going over to his house for at least three hours just about every day of the week?”

“I call it trying to turn on his stove,” Dean says, glares at him, and takes a sharp bite out of his bagel. “He doesn’t even know who the Winchesters are, Sam. I’m not letting you and dad do a pre-pre-nuptial check-up on him when he wouldn’t have a clue why you were asking about his financial status or if he’s made any enemies in his life.”

Sam stares at him. “Wow. You really like this guy.”

“Sam,” Dean warns.

Sam grins at him. “Come on, Dean! You should ask him to go to dinner at least.”

“We eat dinner together all the time!”

“Soup kitchen community service doesn’t count. That’s about as far away from romantic as I can imagine. Seriously, Ellen’s constantly wandering around fully prepared to shout at you to get back to work.” Sam spins his chair just a little bit. “Come on, it’s a Wednesday. Nobody has plans on Wednesday night.”

“We do,” Dean points out.

Sam is a vicious little brother because he pulls out his cell phone, says “not anymore,” and suddenly Dean’s schedule is completely open after the conference call.

Dean’s not sure how he feels about that.

\---

Castiel answers the phone with an irritable _Yes?_ when Dean finally calls him at eight in the morning. Since he usually gets a laid-back _Hello?_ or even a fond _Hello, Dean_ if he calls at his depressingly habitual three thirty in the afternoon.

“I guess you’re busy,” Dean says lightly.

He could swear it sounds like Castiel dropped something on the floor. “Dean?”

“Yep, it’s Dean,” he agrees, and tries to ignore the instant fondness that curls up in his chest. “I’ll call back later, I didn’t meant to interrupt-”

“It’s fine, they’ll wait for me,” Castiel says, and there’s the tell-tale sound of a door shutting. “What’s wrong?”

Dean frowns. “Nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to invite you to dinner.”

The silence he gets in return makes Dean think he might actually understand that ‘pregnant pause’ phrase he hears all the time. There is a pause, and he has no idea what’s going to come out after it’s over, and there’s going to be something that comes after the pregnant pause whether it wants to or not.

“Okay. When?”

Dean’s pretty sure his pause has a miscarriage or something, since Castiel says _Dean?_ with this concerned, caring tone that makes Dean jerk and say, “Yeah, sorry. How does six thirty sound?”

“A little late,” Castiel says honestly. “I get off work at three.”

Dean frowns at the wall. “You eat dinner at three?”

“I usually eat four small meals on workdays,” Castiel explains. “My workday starts at four in the morning-”

Dean groans. “Oh god, why the hell do you let me bother you until eight at night?”

“You don’t bother me.”

“Not what I mean, Cas.” He glares at the floor. “Alright, I solemnly swear to have you home by seven.”

“I don’t need nine hours of sleep,” Castiel says, and sounds way too amused.

“Okay, I’m going to come get you at _four_ , and we’re going to go have some newly-created meal between lunch and dinner, and we will have a good time before seven o’clock.”

He can practically hear the frown. “Do you normally eat that slowly?”

“Dude, you’ve eaten with me before,” Dean objects. “And I thought we could maybe go do something afterwards if you wanted to maybe?” Christ, Dean is _such_ a _girl_. He can just see Sam laughing himself unconscious when the story eventually gets back to him, locked and soundproof apartment or not, because somehow Sam knows _everything_.

“That could be fun,” Castiel muses, and there’s a hushed background noise that Castiel echoes with a sigh. “I’m sorry, Dean, but I need to get back to work.”

“Oh, no problem. I should too.” Which is a lie, but Castiel doesn’t need to know that. “See you tonight.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Castiel says, and hangs up, leaving Dean blinking at the wall because every plan he’d had is now shot to hell and he can’t remember the last time he did something legal and fun before sundown.


	2. Castiel vs Apparently Every Plan Dean Makes

Dean owns an Italian restaurant. His father has yet to find it funny.

He also owns a nightclub, where Tuesdays are Ladies’ Night and it has a Couple’s Night on Sundays. Sam makes obnoxious cooing noises at him every single time it comes up in conversation, including when they’re going over the books every couple of months, enormous conference room full of important people or not.

Dean is considering starting a soup kitchen in one of the more expensive areas of the city. He’s not telling _anyone_ about that, but he likes to think Castiel would work there with him every other weekend.

\---

They end up in a paddleboat, because neither of them have ever actually paddled a paddleboat and Dean was ready to jump at the first activity he spotted after dinner, mostly because dinner had told Dean very, very clearly that Castiel has _no idea_ this is supposed to be a date. They’d walked into Dean’s classy Italian restaurant (which has some elaborate Italian name that Dean can’t pronounce correctly; basic Italian he can work with, but little-used words about a random type of lettuce aren’t what his education focused on) and the moment Dean had tried to pull Castiel’s chair out for him, Castiel had frowned, paused, and headed straight for the other chair. And yeah, Dean probably shouldn’t have treated him like a girl but he was nervous and trying to be a gentleman and things just weren’t going according to plan.

Not that he’d had much of a plan.

But really, the not-acknowledged-as-a-date was going pretty well. Talking with Castiel is always great, feeding him is even better, and Dean likes to think they’re having a good time. And Castiel looks tired but he’s smiling, so Dean doesn’t even feel guilty about the fun activity requiring a level of physical labor usually experienced by people in expensive gyms around the world.

Their boat is an obnoxious yellow that seems to stain the water brown, but they’re paddling along and doing their best to make strategic turns through different parts of the pond with different speeds of paddling and actually did a pretty good job of playing chicken with another boat. It was undoubtedly the slowest game of chicken Dean’s ever played, but it’s possibly the most memorable, since it’s also the first game of chicken he’s lost.

He blames the other boat. The thirteen-year-old girls obviously have more experience with their paddleboat anyway.

They start making starboard circles when he looks over at Castiel’s feet.

“What?” Castiel asks, but from the look on his face, he can tell what’s coming.

“Your feet are _tiny_ ,” Dean says. “You’re way too tall for those feet. How can you walk without falling over?”

“My feet are fine,” Castiel says, calm and slow enough that Dean’s pretty sure he should be dropping the subject, but his feet are tiny and adorable and absolutely hilarious. “I fall down just as often as you do.”

Dean grins. “I never fall down without being pushed.”

Castiel stops pedaling. “I see,” he says, and rocks the boat just hard enough that Dean’s tipping out of the boat. Dean’s arms pinwheel for what seems like hours before he tilts past the final degree and ends up splashing into the water, which is a little over two feet deep. It leaves Dean soaked and glaring at Castiel with water up to his thighs, and he’s actually higher up than Castiel.

“I didn’t push you,” Castiel says, lips quirking but mostly avoiding completing the smug smile that’s all over his eyes. Castiel isn’t laughing at him, but the enemy boat sure is, one of the girls looking like she’s about to tip over and fall in herself.

“Cute,” Dean grumbles, and starts wringing out the hem of his shirt, as much good as it’ll do. “Real cute, Cas. You do know I’m going to roll around on all your rugs now, right?”

Castiel’s mouth drops open in absolute horror. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would,” Dean says, crosses his arms, and does his best to ignore the weird suction feeling he’s getting from his shoes while he walks forward. That and the stupid smug look Castiel still has on underneath his horror. “I’m getting back in the boat.”

Castiel frowns at him. “How?”

Dean considers the paddleboat. “I’ll figure something out.”

\---

Dean doesn’t figure something out.

He does manage to make Castiel laugh hard enough that Dean’s kind of worried he’ll pass out, since after a while it sounds like his lungs can’t catch up with his mind and his laughter ends up sounding more like the pained, desperate gasps of someone being strangled to death.

“We can’t take the boat in with just one person paddling!” Dean finally ends up justifying himself after attempt number seventeen of getting back in the stupid yellow boat.

Castiel nods, still smiling, and hops right into the water with him without a moment’s hesitation. They end up pushing the boat all the way back to the disgruntled boatman and his sun-lazy cat, the late summer sun feeling wonderful on the back of Dean’s neck. Because that is undoubtedly the only reason he feels so damn hot when his newly-soaked friend is doing physical labor in a clingy wet shirt close enough to him that Dean can swear he can feel his pulse.

It makes their walk back to Taft Avenue a little more adventuresome, what with being soaked and walking in a not-the-best-but-not-the-worst-either neighborhood in broad daylight, with people staring at them and a few actually pointing, but Dean’s too busy talking about music with Castiel.

He likes jazz, by the way. _Real_ jazz, not the smooth elevator music that took the word jazz and watered it down until it was deemed appropriate for ages born through dead. And he’d probably like blues if he heard something of quality, and Dean’s pretty sure that if he pushed the right buttons with the right amount of pressure, he could get Castiel to like just about anything.

That’s a nice thought.

\---

Castiel has this strange habit at the soup kitchen where he alternates spoons depending on the pot he’s cooking in. Not just in that keeping-the-soups-separate way, either. He uses a solid wooden spoon for some things, only uses a ladle for others, and Dean’s seen him use a barbeque fork a few times.

When he asked Castiel why, he’d just shrugged and said, “Because that’s what it’s stirred with.”

Dean wishes he could do that, just point at the sky and think _it’s blue because the sky is blue_. For now, he settles for watching Castiel, because _Castiel is weird because he’s weird_ is probably as much faith as he can manage, and Dean’s happy enough with that.

\---

“So. This is you,” Dean says.

Castiel _frowns_ at him. “It’s my apartment, Dean.”

“Yep,” Dean says, because he’s an idiot, and starts fiddling with his watch for no reason whatsoever because, again, he’s an idiot. “And it’s a nice one.”

Castiel shakes his head and unlocks the door, stepping in and not even bothering to close the door. It’s such a blatant sign of Castiel expecting Dean to follow that his body’s following before his mind even catches up, door closed and waiting politely in the entryway, because Castiel had told him to. It makes Dean think he might have gone a little too far with threatening his super-feng-shui, but since Castiel comes back out in a robe and slippers, carrying another robe and a pair of slippers for Dean, his brain is suddenly occupied with other things than potentially messing with Castiel’s comfort zone.

“Did you want to shower?” Castiel asks. Dean can’t do much more than nod, and then everything gets _really_ screwy because Castiel nods and says, “Okay, strip down and I’ll start it for you,” and walks away after handing Dean the robe and slippers.

He’s pretty sure he missed something. Maybe it was a big cosmic How To label that had been attached to Castiel’s apron when they met the first time, or maybe it was some eyebrow quirk or some even-stranger-than-usual action of Castiel’s that would have told him exactly what’s going on. But whatever it was, he’d missed it, so Dean just shakes his head, wonders what the hell is going on, and strips down to his boxers and the incredibly comfortable robe. He’s deciding whether or not to steal the slippers when Castiel returns holding a basket full of his own wet clothes, and he doesn’t even bother asking Dean, just scoops up the clothing and tosses it into the basket.

“They’ll be dry by the time you get out,” Castiel says, and escorts Dean into the bedroom.

Dean has never been in Castiel’s bedroom. Castiel’s never gone into the bedroom while Dean’s been in the apartment, the door has never been open, and Dean had slowly come to accept that the bedroom has an invisible DO NOT ENTER sign on the door. He hesitates long enough that Castiel glances back at him with this _you coming?_ sort of look, and all Dean can really think is _hell yeah_ before he walks through the doorway.

The bedroom is very, very white, aside from the dark wood of the furniture. It could be considered modern if it weren’t for the old-ish pattern on the comforter and the obviously antique bedframe – seriously, the thing’s big and heavy enough that Dean’s pretty sure the building was built _around_ the bed – and the only decoration is a grid of pictures on the wall, seven-by-seven and arranged by season, going from summer to spring. Right in the middle, in the late fall category, there’s a picture that looks a whole lot like a ten-year-old Castiel smiling next to a beaming identical twin, said twin looking like he’s hugging Castiel tight enough to squeeze him to death.

“That’s Jimmy,” Castiel says in a voice so calm it’s downright suspicious. “I was thirty-eight minutes older than him.”

Dean frowns. “Was?”

“He was killed a few years ago,” Castiel says, and opens up a door Dean didn’t even notice, a white door in a white room with a white doorknob. Steam and downright seductive heat is already drifting out of the doorway, but he ignores it because Castiel is still looking at him, and he’s still looking back.

It’s an intense, vicious, terrifying staring contest, and Dean loses. He looks down, because he knows there’s no way in hell he’ll manage to ask _what happened_ , not with Castiel already looking so hurt.

He’s a very good liar, but somehow, he’s pretty sure Castiel knows Dean had the family’s less-than-legal information gatherer look into Castiel’s apartment. And for the first time in a really long time, Dean actually thinks he might be sorry for doing something illegal, only technically an accomplice or not.

“There are clean towels on the toilet,” Castiel says, and leaves quietly.

\---

Dean has never really had a serious girlfriend. Or boyfriend. In fact, he rarely has a serious conversation not related to work, and he likes it that way. In Dean’s opinion, serious conversation should be saved up for serious situations, and he’s in those often enough that he thinks building up a surplus of Serious Conversations will probably be very helpful in the near future.

He likes to solve conflicts with avoidance, or likes to not even try to resolve conflicts in general, unless it’s a serious one. After all, you could say life is a conflict between you and death, and he’s not too excited to see the resolution of that one any time soon.

And if he ends up conflicted and in, say, a serious situation, Dean would be more than happy to talk it out then. Or punch it out. Either works for him, really.

\---

When Dean dries off and gets out of Castiel’s shower, his clothes are dry, folded neatly and waiting politely on the bathroom counter.

When Dean gets dressed and gets out of Castiel’s bathroom, Castiel is waiting politely on his bed, calm and wearing a t-shirt and red-striped sweatpants that explain his not-quite-pink towels, the picture of him and Jimmy in his hand.

“What would you like to know?” Castiel asks the moment Dean lets the bathroom door shut behind him.

He considers asking what he _really_ wants to know, thinks about the itch under his skin and the urge to scratch until he’s bleeding, and sits down on his hands next to Castiel, smiling. “So do twins really have the psychic connection thing or is that just on Disney Channel?”

And Castiel looks confused and open(ish) again, and everything’s alright all over again.

\---

Jimmy was not the star athlete, or the straight-A student, or anything else that might earn your proud mother some more bragging rights to stick to the bumper of her car. He wasn’t _captain_ of the debate team, but he was on it, and he was good. He went to college, got a degree in journalism, met Amelia the world-famous interior decorator, got married (there’s a wedding picture that Dean tries hard to not coo at, but Castiel’s standing there all proud and happy with his twin and his new sister-in-law and wearing a suit that’s so nineties that Dean feels like he needs to tie a sweatshirt around his waist and go listen to Nirvana or something), had a baby girl named Claire (and that was one cute baby, no lie), and then there was a car wreck and two funerals.

That’s where Castiel stops the story, and Dean doesn’t blame him. He doesn’t think he’d have been able to get this far if he was talking about Sam dying. Hell, he probably wouldn’t be talking, period.

“We weren’t psychic,” Castiel says, wistful and dead tired. “We could just read each other’s faces.”

Dean just nods and makes comforting noises and half-asses being subtle about tucking Castiel into bed. “That’s a pretty useful talent.”

Castiel makes an agreeing sort of humming noise against his pillow, and Dean leaves before he does something _really_ stupid like climb in next to him.

\---

This is what Castiel doesn’t say, but Dean’s smart enough to pick up on:

Jimmy was the _normal_ one. The one that got the girl and the job and the kid and was completely content with his life, even if he wasn’t always outright happy. Jimmy was the average one, the one that did the best he could and made his way through the world with the knowledge of what he could do and what he couldn’t do.

Castiel wasn’t. Castiel was the smart one, the weird one, the one who watched his twin get everything the world said they should want and was happy for his brother, but was concerned that what Jimmy had wasn’t what Castiel wanted. Castiel was the confused, awkward, pleasant-but-not-as-pleasant-as-Jimmy one, and he’d loved his brother and would have loved him even if Jimmy Novak had ended up as that creepy graveyard-shift bus driver who never smiled, only _sneered_ , no matter how nice you were.

Dean hasn’t known Castiel for even half a year, but he knows that Castiel works in that soup kitchen for the right reasons instead of choosing to live in a world where parking meters are just very unusual sculptures that line the roads.

It’s shockingly reassuring to know people like that really exist in the world.

\---

The place Dean officially lives in is outside of the city and has a nice view of pretty much everything. It’s a house, it’s enormous, and it’s pleasantly surprised to see him when he drives in at sunset.

Missouri doesn’t even bother looking at him, just waits for Dean to get close enough for her to smack upside the head. “That’s what you get for not coming back after your negotiation over Sam went through,” she grumbles, and sits him down in the kitchen. “The cake’s almost done, and no, I’m not going to make you a damn pie.”

Dean just sits and forgets about asking, because if there’s one thing that can make him feel eleven years old again, it’s Missouri. “How are things?”

Missouri shrugs. “Same as ever,” she says, and when she turns back around she has a smile on her face that makes Dean think it was a bad idea to come back. “What I want to hear about is how your date went.”

He groans. “God, does _everybody_ know?”

Missouri laughs at him, even though she gives him an affectionate pat on the arm. “Everybody but your date!”

She’s laughing really, really hard.

Dean needs to buy a third house.

\---

One of the drawbacks of having the head of the Winchester family as your father is that it’s very, very hard to have a genuinely upsetting rebellion phase. The only thing Dean could have done to manage that would have been to go join the police or something, and since the idea was just as horrific to Dean, he never really bothered with the rebellious teenager thing. His rebellion was pretty much dropping out of college after a month, and even then his dad only frowned.

Sam got closer, though, with applying to Stanford and going to school to become a lawyer and not letting them know _why_ he was doing it. Which was probably smart of him, since word always gets out about things no matter how few people you tell or, apparently, how sound-proof and locked your apartment is.

\---

The first time Dean wakes up, it’s because his phone is shouting out _HOW COULD THIS HAP-PEN TO MEEEEEEEE?_ , and he turns it off and goes back to sleep because there’s nothing quite as comfortable as the expensive bed he grew up in.

The second time, it’s to his phone plugging Aretha Franklin into his skull and her voice goes _I WILL SURVIVE! HEEEY-HEEEEEYYYYY!_ a few times, and he does a good job of shoving it under his pillow and going back to sleep.

The third time, his phone is on vibrate and it shakes his poor pillow enough that Dean actually stays awake long enough to look at his phone.

He has two missed calls, one from SAM privatecell and one from SAM cell.

He also has a message from SAM privatecell. It reads:

 _LOLOLOLOOOOLLLOLOLOLOOLOLLLOLLOLOLOLOLOL_

 _ps were on it_

 _pps LOL YOU DIDNT EVEN KISS HIM DID YOU_

because Sam is a horrible, horrible little brother who texts like he’s thirteen. But, Sam had called from his general cell phone, which meant it was more than just wanting to make Dean’s life miserable, so Dean pushed good old speed dial number one.

“Good morning, Dean, how’d you sleep?” Sam asks, and he can just hear the grin on his smug stupid face of stupid smugness.

“Not enough,” Dean says, and since the clock says it’s only three in the morning he can’t help but groan some more. “Alright, what’s going on?”

“I think you’ve made my life worth living,” Sam says gleefully. “Alright, wait a second. Hold on.” There’s shouting, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing in their line of business but isn’t ever something you want to hear when it’s three in the morning. “Okay, you can drive. We want you back in the apartment when this hits the market. You made page three, by the way, but the Gay Corleone tag is on the cover.”

“The _what?_ ” Dean hisses.

“Aw, I wanted to see your face,” Sam says, and sounds genuinely disappointed. “But yeah, someone snapped some pictures of you and Castiel running around town in wet clothing with you making goo-goo eyes at him and stuff. Honestly, it’s nothing more than speculation and an excuse to put pictures of guys wearing wet clothes in the tabloid, but we’ve got it covered.”

He can hear the smile in that sentence, and it’s a different smile than the others. It’s the business smile that makes Dean wonder why people are scared of _normal_ lawyers when guys like Sam are walking around town.

“It’s a new-ish tabloid so we’re pretty sure that’s why they were stupid enough to print the story,” Sam says, and goes on about legal matters at a pace that tells Dean this is pretty much a second Halloween for his brother, nothing but candy everywhere he looks. “Anyway, you’ll probably own their paper by Saturday.”

“Okay, hold on a second,” Dean says, and rubs at his eyes, because it’s way too early for this, and it never should have happened in the first place. “Cas is in these pictures?”

“Is there someone else you skip around town with and make lovesick cooing noises at?”

“I don’t _coo_ , and you’re not answering the question.”

Sam sighs. “Yes, Dean, they have Castiel in them. He’s kind of the entire reason there’s a story about you, remember?”

“Can you see his face?”

“Is there something you’re not telling me?” Sam’s asking with that legal advisor voice, the one that tells Dean to not fuck with him because it’s for Dean’s own good.

Dean clears his throat, and speaks as clearly and calmly as he can manage. “I’m pretty sure Castiel’s identical twin was murdered, and if someone sees him and thinks they missed his twin they might go after Cas, so no, I’m not happy he’s in a tabloid being printed and sold to people.”

There is a long pause on the phone before Sam clears his throat and says, “That’s a problem. Okay, is there any way you can convince him to stay with you for a few days?” Which means _do we have to kidnap him for his own good_ in Winchester.

Dean climbs out of bed and heads for the ever-clean wardrobe that’s everywhere he ever sleeps. “I might be able to catch him before he goes to work.”

“Good luck,” Sam says, and hangs up, which is good since everything seems to go faster when he has two hands to work with.

\---

Dean never wanted a pony. Sure, practical reasons were involved – they smell, you have to feed them and clean them, ponies are kinda girly anyway – but the biggest reason was that he genuinely didn’t want one. The kids at school thought he was crazy for having so much money but not wanting a pony, because apparently it’s every kid’s dream to have a horse of their own to ride around and feed and clean and watch prance around a corral and stuff.

Really, that all sounded boring to Dean. He wanted things with metal and moving parts and connections and power. The other kids got puppies, and Dean got a train set with an actual miniaturized steam-powered train that was just big enough for him to really tinker with.

Let it never be said that John Winchester doesn’t do anything for his kids.

(Sam got a puppy, though. He was brown and happy and Sam named him Max, and Max got dognapped when he was five years old and never came home, and poor twelve-year-old Sam never asked for another pet again.)

\---

Castiel’s apartment is unlocked when Dean gets there, door only propped against the doorframe, and he’s about ready to call the family ( _way_ better than 911) until Castiel comes walking around the corner with half a bagel in his mouth, coffee in one hand, and his mail in the other.

“Mffmmm,” Castiel says, face all adorable and confused, and Dean feels just about ready to fall over and die of a heart attack.

“Oh god, I thought you were dead.”

Castiel tilts his head the side. “Fffm?”

“Nevermind, just.” Dean takes a deep, deep breath. “Okay, I need you to come with me and live with me for a couple days.”

Castiel just _stares_. “Mf.”

“Okay, here,” Dean says, and grabs Castiel’s mail out of his hand. “I need you to live in my apartment for just a couple days because I’m worried about you.”

Castiel finally pulls the bagel out of his mouth. “I can take care of myself, but thank you,” Castiel says, and moves past Dean to get through the door and into his apartment. “I worry about you too, but I don’t try to convince you to move in for a few days either.”

Dean follows him in, not quite slamming the door behind him. “Okay, Cas, you said Jimmy was killed. Which means he didn’t just _die_ , something happened to him, and maybe some _one_ happened to him, and-”

“Dean,” Castiel says, and Dean shuts up because Castiel can imply a whole range of things just by saying his name, and that one was a definite shut up. “My brother was murdered, yes, but I don’t think you’d understand what happened.” He puts the coffee down on the kitchen table and exchanges it for the mail in Dean’s hand, sorting through it. “Unless something very strange happened in the last twelve hours, I’m not worried that someone will mistake me for my twin and try to kill me.”

He clears his throat and does his best to not look as guilty as he feels and is, because Dean is so very very guilty, but he shifts and says, “Yeah, about that,” and wonders why the hell he didn’t just drug Castiel and drag him to the apartment, because that’d probably be easier to explain to the man anyway. “So you know how I’m Dean Winchester?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, obviously waiting for the punch line that’s never going to come.

“I’m kind of in the mafia and my dad’s sort of the equivalent of the godfather and I was going to be but I’m not going to be anymore but I might be anyway and that kind of makes me a celebrity and there are pictures of you and me in a tabloid and they’re getting printed right now and they’ll be sent out and sold to people and then you’ll have your face all over and whoever killed your brother might kill you and I’m not okay with that so will you please come live with me for a few days before this all blows over and I don’t have to worry you’re going to get shot or stabbed or poisoned or something?”

Castiel stares at him for a long, long time.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says.

“What’s the godfather?” Castiel asks, and Dean can’t deal with this, at all, let alone on such a tiny amount of sleep, so he grabs Castiel by the arm and drags him towards the door.

“Sorry, I forgot you haven’t watched any movies in color,” he says. “Okay, you know how in Some Like It Hot there’s that guy Spats and he’s trying to kill the cross-dressing protagonists?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, actually interested enough to walk with Dean instead of against him.

“My dad’s the guys that kill Spats with a birthday cake,” Dean says.

Castiel slows enough that Dean’s tugging him along again. “Is your father the man inside the birthday cake with the gun, or the man who came up with the plan, or-”

Dean turns to stare at him. “Does it actually matter?”

“You’re the one that brought it up,” Castiel says, and Dean’s sure that makes sense to Castiel, but he’s probably the only one.

“My family has killed people,” Dean states. “I have done very, very bad things.”

Castiel frowns and pulls his hand away from Dean. “What do you want me to say? I’m not going to be horrified just because you want me to be.”

Dean only stares more, looking Castiel right in the eye as his mind says _please, please, yes_ over and over again and his mouth opens and asks, “What is your financial situation?”

Castiel stares right back. “Very stable,” he says, and takes a step backwards.

He swallows. “Do you have any enemies?”

“Arguably one, but one with many allies,” Castiel says, gives Dean one of those it’s-all-in-the-eyes smiles, and suddenly Dean has a face full of closed front door.

So, Dean knocks. He knocks for fifteen minutes, and only stops because the door down the hall opens up and the man inside it storms over in a t-shirt and boxers and a ratty old robe. “Oh my god shut _up_ already! It’s four in the morning, you stupid idiot!”

“I’ll leave when he opens the damn door,” Dean shouts back. “His life might depend on this and he’s too stubborn to let me help!”

The man groans and clutches at his head. “If it’s that important, why don’t you just kick the damn door down?”

Dean pauses, frowns at the man, and says, “Huh.” Because that’s a pretty good idea. Sure, Castiel probably won’t talk to him for a couple days since it’s part of the apartment and that means there’s a strong chance that he cares more about the door than avoiding starvation or something. But really, the choice between talking to Castiel and having Castiel alive to talk to isn’t much of a choice at all, so he motions for the guy to step back.

It’s been a while since he kicked down a door, but it’s like riding a bicycle. It’s always there in the back of his mind, ready and waiting to be used. The door swings hard inwards, the wood splintering as the hinges send the door slamming into the wall.

And Castiel is standing at the end of the hall with his coffee mug in hand, looking murderous. Which means a lot coming from Dean Winchester, considering the company he keeps. “You broke his door,” he says, and Dean can hear the _I’m going to kill you_ beneath it, can feel the absolute fury directed towards him, and Dean can hear the guy who lives next door to Castiel run back into his own apartment.

Dean swallows down the apprehension (because he’s obviously not afraid of Castiel because seriously, the guy’s some kind of soup kitchen secretary in mourning and Dean’s taller than him and he’s kind of skinny and stuff, so obviously there’s no reason to be scared) and squares his shoulders. “I’m taking you to my apartment, and I’m keeping you safe-”

Castiel’s coffee mug smashes against the kitchen’s tile flooring as its owner strides forward, and Dean can’t do much other than gape when Castiel’s hand wraps around his throat and he’s slammed against the wall and Castiel is glaring at him, wrath and fury and pure disgust.

“I understand you are scared,” Castiel says, dark and restrained. “I know you think you’re doing the right thing. I accept that you think I can’t take care of myself.” His hand squeezes just a little tighter, and Dean couldn’t tell for the life of him if it’s intentional or not. “But that doesn’t give you the right to break into the last refuge I have, Dean, let alone _physically break it_.”

Dean manages to choke out Castiel’s name, or at least the first syllable, and Castiel lets him go, lets him gasp and sag against the wall as Castiel watches him for a long moment before walking deeper into the apartment. Dean closes his eyes and breathes, tries to calm his body down and tell himself everything will be okay and he’ll eventually be forgiven. He looks down at the undeniably beautiful floor and the splinters laying quietly on top of it, and realizes he’s genuinely, truly, whole-heartedly fucked up what he had with Castiel, because the apartment _is_ his brother, just like the stove is someone or something else, just like Castiel seems to collect his memories in physical reminders.

His shoes reappear in front of Dean’s eyes, small and shiny, and he follows Castiel’s legs upwards, up to the small, worn, old-fashioned suitcase in his hand and the beige trenchcoat and the fact he looks very much like he’d been packing up for the last few minutes. Maybe even twenty minutes.

He still looks pretty pissed off, though, and Dean really can’t blame him, he really, really can’t.

“Go ahead,” Castiel says, and Dean nods and heads out the doorway without meeting his eyes. Castiel takes longer, since he chains the door shut from the outside and then puts the biggest piece of wood in the biggest hole before following a very, very quiet Dean down to the street, mind still going _please, please, please, God, please, yes_.

\---

The more Dean Winchester learns about Castiel, the more he thinks he should wait for Castiel to tell him stuff, to do the smart thing and have patience and trust Castiel to tell him what he wants to know, and what he needs to know, and the difference between those two.

But really, Dean has an awful record when it comes to doing the smart thing.


	3. Dean vs His Feeeeeeeelings

Dean likes alcohol. It worried Sam back when he got back after his four month stint away from the family, since Dean _really_ liked alcohol then, but Dean’s far from alcoholic. In fact, he’s helped people realize they’re drunks and ensured that his not-really-his nightclub hired bartenders who knew how to cut someone off, and when.

Truth is, he just likes forgetting. He also likes having an excuse to be kind of stupid, because like it or not, a drunk man get away with a hell of a lot more than a sober guy ever would.

\---

He has, in fact, had more awkward experiences in cars than driving Castiel to the apartment Dean usually calls his primary residence.

Not many, though, and they usually had unmentionables in the trunk of his car. Number one was probably the time a few years ago when Sam had some problems and they had to clean them up without even their dad knowing what was happening, and that was awkward to the point that they avoided each other for twelve hours afterwards (which probably doesn’t seem like a lot, but it is). This one probably ranks fourth, which means it is really, painfully awkward.

Dean can’t remember ever seeing Castiel mad. He’s seen him frustrated and annoyed and tired and sore and hurt, but never mad. And of course, when he _does_ see Castiel mad, he’s mad at Dean, and furious to the point of choking him against a wall for a couple seconds. The emotion’s not wearing off, either. Castiel is holding onto that anger with cold, brittle, malicious little fingers that refuse to give Dean a single inch of forgiveness.

Yes, there’s property damage to his creepy apartment of dead people. Dean feels guilty enough that his throat’s sore from more than the choking, but in the long run? Yeah. He’s not sorry.

Except for the part where he really, really wants to apologize, just so they can go back to being friends and not tense companions sitting next to each other in a car making awkward conversation like “So how’d you sleep?” followed by “Adequately” and _absolute silence_. Or, Dean’s personal favorite of their joyous little drive, when “Your suitcase looks real old” was followed by “It is. Would you like to break into that too?” which was even more uncomfortable because yes, he actually would.

Thankfully it’s not long enough to completely destroy their relationship, as far as Dean can tell. He thinks the car elevator helps a bit with that, since the moment Dean pulls into the expanded (yes, _expanded_ ) service elevator of his building and it starts heading for the Impala’s home sweet home on the top floor, five doors down from Dean’s bedroom, Castiel looks around and frowns. “Isn’t there a danger of carbon dioxide poisoning?”

Dean shrugs. “Probably.”

The next frown is hard to not smile at, because he knows that frown. It’s the trying-to-understand-your-very-odd-ways frown. “You haven’t investigated?”

“I trust my people to do it right.”

The tilt of his head tells Dean that Castiel is fully invested in the topic, and he has to put a hand over his mouth because _they’re going to be okay_ , and that’s a hell of a reason to smile. “You know these people personally?”

Dean shifts and purses his lips to get rid of the unquestionably too excited expression on his face, because they’re still fighting, supposedly, and smiling during a fight is never a good idea. Just pisses everyone off even more. “Not many people want to cross the firstborn son of a powerful mafia family.”

Castiel frowns. “Fear often leads to mistakes in someone’s work.”

Okay, yeah, he smiles. “It’s been seven years and I’m still standing.”

“So am I,” Castiel mutters, and looks back out the passenger-side window, thinking about things Dean doesn’t know yet but sure as hell wants to.

\---

It turns out that even though Dean took himself out of the heir position in the family, the instincts are still there. He protects, he fights, and he’s more than willing to do things most people wouldn’t if he feels like it’s necessary.

Sam tried to get him counseling after his four-month jaunt through hell a year or so ago. The moment the man asked to hear about what happened, Dean walked out and only barely avoided threatening the man. Which, yeah, probably supports Sam’s idea he needs help, but Dean’s a stubborn bastard. He can work through it on his own. Really.

\---

Dean gives Castiel the nicest spare bedroom, the one he usually keeps for family visitors who need a bit more protection, and he figures Castiel fits that description pretty well right now. It’s huge and comfortable and not quite decadent, but close enough that he’s actually kind of nervous about giving it to Castiel. Bad impressions and everything.

Castiel doesn’t seem to care, though. He looks around, puts his battered old suitcase on one of the expensive armchairs in the sitting room, turns to Dean, and says, “I still need to go to work.”

It’s hard to not gape at him. “Your life’s in danger, and you’re worried about your special secretary job?”

Castiel frowns. “You can’t just lock me up, Dean. And I can take care of myself.”

He wants to say _watch me_ , but they’re still kind of fighting in a weird, utterly Castiel kind of way, so he doesn’t. “It’s only until Sam says it’s safe, okay? I’m gonna be hanging around here with you anyway.”

Castiel hesitates, but nods, and snaps open his old suitcase. It’s full of framed pictures that are already painfully familiar to Dean, and not a bit of clothing.

No wonder it took him twenty minutes to pack.

“You can hang them up if you want,” Dean says, even though he knows he probably shouldn’t. Castiel isn’t looking at him, and he’s not sure if that’s good or bad. “I mean, you’re not going to be here very long, but-”

“Thank you,” Castiel says, and when he looks at Dean the expression on his face is something he’s never seen before.

Castiel pulls a hammer out of the suitcase.

Dean grins, and leaves Castiel to his hanging so he can finally, _finally_ get his nap.

\---

The dream is simple. Believable. It’s probably the worst part of it.

Castiel’s still pounding away on his frames. Dean’s curled in his blankets, waking up nice and comfortable and slow. Alistair’s standing at the foot of his bed, smiling.

He wakes himself up so fast that he nearly falls out of his bed, and can’t bring himself to try and sleep again.

\---

Castiel bakes him some cookies around 11. They have little bits of raspberry in them. Dean has no idea how he managed to put them in, but they’re delicious to the point that he makes sure to put a few in a Ziploc bag labeled _SAMMY_ and considers saving some for his dad, but that would lead to questions about the cookies, and Castiel, and Dean’s relationship with Castiel, so he eats those too.

“You’re awesome,” Dean tells him around a mouth full of cookie, and hopes the cookies are a sign of forgiveness.

“I need clothing,” Castiel states, and Dean nearly chokes with the mental images he gets from those three words combined with textures and tastes he has rolling across his tongue. “And I need to go to work tomorrow.”

Dean shakes his head. Of course the cookies were a evil, cunning trap. “I can’t, Cas. I don’t want something to happen to you.”

Castiel is looking more and more pissed off as this conversation goes on. “Then take me back to the apartment. I’m letting you make me live here, but I’m not letting you _keep me_ like some-”

“No,” Dean snaps, and Castiel’s hands slam down onto the table hard enough that every dish clatters from the impact.

“If you do this to me,” Castiel says, low and angry, “I’ll leave on my own.” Dean can hear the _permanently_ attached to that. Castiel is serious about this, and Dean’s never known him to make an idle threat. Hell, the man barely understands Dean’s occasional threat to paint his furniture are just jokes.

He’s in negotiations. He knows when he has to compromise, when he has to bend before the price is too high and the relationship breaks completely. That’s the only thing that keeps him from just tying Castiel up and dumping him in the guest bedroom with armed guards. That, and the fact – _fact_ – that if he says no, Castiel will make his own way out of Dean’s life and vanish.

The thought terrifies him.

He sighs, and can’t meet Castiel’s eyes. “Swear to me that you’ll come back afterwards.”

“I swear,” Castiel says immediately.

“And no _one last thing_ , when I say we’re leaving, we’re leaving.”

Castiel frowns. He hesitates, but nods. “If I’m finished with what I need to do, yes.”

Dean nods, and finally looks back up at him. “Alright, what do you need to do?”

And he has no idea why, but Castiel is smiling at him.

\---

Dean doesn't like wearing suits. He likes some of his suits - they look awesome on him, so how can he not? - but a part of him's kind of opposed to wearing them around when he's not at work. He likes jeans and t-shirts and flannel and things that he can just lounge in, even though he can't quite bring himself to wear sweat pants. Too little fabric. Not enough protection.

He used to love suits. He loved the feel of smoothing a tie down the front of his shirt, the sharp, hard reflection in the mirror, the colors and cuts and textures. Price was never an object, and it showed in his clothing. It was a sign. _If you fuck with me, I will destroy you_ , the suits said. And it wasn't just posturing.

That's probably why he liked them. It’s also probably why he doesn't like wearing them anymore.

Castiel's suits are never severe. They fit, and they look great, but he never goes for the extremes that Dean did. His suits are more like Sam's suits, firm but naturally so, like the man wearing it is firm and the suit’s just reminding you.

There’s something incredibly reassuring about an unbuttoned suit jacket.

\---

They're halfway back to Castiel's apartment when he realizes his friend is one cunning son of a bitch.

He hadn't brought any clothes, any important stuff like a toothbrush, any _anything_ , and had obviously been intending to get back to the apartment as soon as he could, no matter how freaked Dean was about the entire situation. Which leaves Dean feeling like he's been had (mostly because he HAS) and glancing over at Castiel way more often than he should while he tries to adjust his mental image of Castiel to include _very very devious_ into the description.

The guy doesn't look like he's conned Dean into being his (temporary) bitch. He looks worried, and like he's still fighting hard against being royally pissed at Dean, which is totally justified. It leaves Dean wondering if maybe Castiel's so naturally sneaky that he doesn't even realize he did it, but the guy thought ahead far enough to bring a hammer to Dean's apartment, so he doubts it.

"So what exactly are we going to get here?" Dean asks, and when Castiel just frowns at him, he clears his throat. "I don't want to stay longer than we have to, so I want to know what we're getting so we can get in, get whatever you need, and get right back out. It's for your own safety."

Castiel nods. "We're going to retrieve essential items that I need for everyday life."

Which only supports Dean's feeling of This Is Shifty. He doesn't know what's up, but Castiel's sure hiding something from him.

He gives his friend a very, very firm look. "Cas. Please. I'm trying to help."

"I understand that," Castiel tells him. "And I understand that you mean well. I don't like how you've been going about all of this, but you're from a different background than I am."

Dean pales, and knows this is The Talk, the same _you're a great guy but what the fuck, you're from a mafia family, how am I supposed to deal with that_ talk he's gotten over and over and over.

"I'm aware I was raised strangely, and I'm trying to understand your position," Castiel says firmly, and Dean doesn't quite know what to make of that, since Dean’s been thinking Castiel’s strange is nature and not nurture, so he keeps his eyes on the road. Driving, unlike Castiel, makes sense. He stops when there's a stop sign, drives when there's a green light, parks when they're in front of the building.

Two can play the cunning bastard game, so Dean says, “Well, maybe if you tell me about how you were raised I can translate for you.”

Castiel hesitates. Oh, how he hesitates, but Dean knows he’s won this time. It’s like watching someone slowly tip off a pier and into the water, arms pinwheeling against the inevitable.

Not that Dean knows what that looks like.

“This will be easier in the apartment,” Castiel says firmly, and steps out of the car with the kind of determination that makes Dean wonder if this is really going to be a good thing to learn. Anything that takes this much decisive action to tell someone is probably not good, which means Dean’s reaction probably won’t be good, which means this entire situation is probably going to get infinitely worse.

\---

Dean really wishes he could find the English-Castiel translation dictionary he’s sure is out there somewhere. He likes to think he’s proficient in conversational Castiel, but sometimes he could really use a bit of help on the more complicated nuances and the stranger phrases that pop up every now and then. He’s got comprehension down more or less, but he’s still working on reaching complete understanding of a native Castiel-speaker.

Dean can speak a bit of Castiel. Sometimes when he gets really bored at work, he’ll entertain himself by speaking Castiel to Sam. “I’m not sure what the merit of this meeting is,” he says, which means _this meeting is so boring I want to blow my brain out and you all should do it too since it’s your fault I’m here_ and “Your tie is very artistic,” which means _you should burn that as soon as possible_ and, Dean’s personal favorite, “That may be problematic,” which means _oh shit, we’re going to die and it’s all your fault_. It’s all in the inflection and the expression. And the shoulders. Speaking Castiel requires a lot of shoulder control.

Sam’s never amused by it, which is, of course, why he does it. Because Dean’s an awesome big brother.

\---

When they swing what’s left of the apartment door open – Dean in front because yes, he’s acting as a human shield in case there’s someone waiting to shoot Castiel and _yes_ he knows how stupid that is and _no_ he doesn’t care that Castiel can take care of himself – he finds himself staring at a pretty redhead standing in the kitchen, staring right back.

“Who the hell are you?” Dean demands, right when Castiel gets out this dazed “Anna!”

The redhead (who he’s guessing is named Anna) gives Castiel an extremely disapproving frown. “Something you want to tell me, Castiel?” Her voice is icy and she keeps glancing at Dean out of the corner of her eye, even when Castiel passes Dean and walks straight towards her.

“Anna, this is my friend Dean Winchester,” he says. “He’s worried I’m going to get shot.”

Anna doesn’t even look at Dean, and obviously doesn’t care much about Castiel’s potential murder. “Who broke the door?”

“I did,” Dean says, and regrets it as soon as Anna looks at him again, because Anna’s kind of scary. She reminds him of a very young and very wrathful nun. So, he tries to defend himself. “He wouldn’t let me in.” When that doesn’t work, since she crosses her arms and genuinely glares, Dean says, “Hey, the guy next door gave me the idea!”

Anna obviously doesn’t even care about the reasons, since she’s going to hate him for ruining the door anyway. She looks back at Castiel, but the frown’s concerned now. “I saw the article. You know he’s going to investigate.”

Castiel breathes out, deep and frustrated. “I seem to be surrounded by people who think I can’t take care of myself.”

Anna smiles and puts a hand on Castiel’s shoulder and for a second Dean really considers removing the hand from Castiel via meat cleaver. “It just means we care.” He shrugs off the hand. Anna doesn’t seem bothered by it, instead turning to look at Dean. And then, she looks at Castiel, obviously expecting something.

Castiel just stares back at her for a while, before whatever it is finally clicks in his head, and he moves towards Dean. “Dean, this is my sister Anna,” he says, and yeah, Dean feels a little guilty for thinking about chopping her hand off, but he’s also slowly realizing that this is Castiel’s _family_ he’s meeting.

He holds out her hand, and she shakes it, and he smiles at her and says, “It’s nice to meet a member of Cas’ family.”

“I didn’t think my little brother had any friends,” she says instead of being polite, so yeah, Dean believes they’re related. He does his best to treat her sentence like he would anything Castiel says, but it’s pretty hard since it’s an offhanded insult. Castiel doesn’t seem bothered by it though. He’s just standing there, looking at the wall space between them.

“Then that’s the world’s loss,” Dean says, even though he’s pretty sure his smile is slipping towards the business side of the visible teeth spectrum. “And I’d have never guessed he’s your little brother.”

“In seniority,” Castiel interjects. “I’m older, but I’m her little brother.”

Anna nods, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Dean wonders if Castiel’s family is from some secret matriarchal society. Castiel takes pity on him though, and explains. Kind of. “She was adopted before we were, so she’s my older sister.”

“Plus I’m more straightforward,” Anna states. She looks over at Castiel, and then back at Dean. “Don’t let our brothers get to him. Especially Lucifer.”

Dean can’t do much more than stare at her for a second. “You’re related to the devil?”

“It means lightbringer, and it used to be a very respectable name, and we all have weird names anyway,” Anna says, clearly used to answering this question. “My full name’s Anael. It’s not like Castiel’s a normal name either.”

He shifts to look at Castiel. “But you’re adopted.”

“They renamed us. It’s a bit like when you get a dog from the pound and rename it,” Anna tells him.

He stares at her again, and tries to process what kind of life you would have if you got adopted, and then everyone started calling you something weird like _Castiel_. He tries to think about what that would do to your mind, and he can barely imagine what that’d be like. When he notices the silence is getting a bit awkward, he says “Huh” to fill it up.

It works, thankfully, so Anna – who is named _Anael_ , which might be even weirder than _Castiel_ and that’s saying something – nods at Castiel, slaps Dean on the shoulder, and walks out the door. There’s no goodbye, no hug, not even a glance back at them. She’s careful about closing the door behind her, but that’s just about the most courtesy she shows for anything in the apartment when she leaves.

If Dean hadn’t known their family had been fucked up, that definitely would have clued him in.

Castiel doesn’t seem too bothered by Anna leaving, since he just walks into the bedroom. Dean takes the open door as a sign of expectation and follows him into the clean and now horrifically white room. He’s no world-famous interior decorator, but he can tell those pictures were the only thing keeping the room from looking sterile enough to serve as an operating room.

“So that was your sister,” Dean says lightly, because he is one smooth bastard.

“Anna, yes,” Castiel says, and opens up two of the white panels on the walls. Inside, there is nothing but suits. Ties and shirts are on the left-hand door panel thing, socks and underwear are on the right side. Dean ignores them, since Castiel’s talking. “She was just here to express a _healthy_ level of concern.”

Dean’s not sure he deserves that, but he rolls with it anyway, leaning against the painfully bare white wall and watching Castiel’s hands move deftly through the closet, putting the clothes in a garment bag obviously meant for extended international travel (Dean knows this because he has seven of them stashed somewhere). “Was she a good big sister?”

Castiel turns to frown at him for a moment before going back to packing. “I have nothing to compare her to, but I think she’s a good big sister, yes.”

“What about your older brothers?” Dean asks, even though he _knows_ it’s a bad idea and that they’re not nearly stable enough for these sorts of questions. “I mean, I like to think I’m a good big brother, so-”

“No, they weren’t,” Castiel states, and closes the closet, garment bag thrown over his arm. Dean’s window of opportunity shuts right along with it, so he clears his throat and makes his way back into the hall. He’s learned it’s easier to make your own exit than to wait for someone to kick you out.

\---

Sam Winchester is the most surprisingly straight male in the world. You’d swear up that he acts _way_ too gay to not even be mildly bi-curious, but no, Dean’s little brother likes the ladies, and only the ladies, no matter how often he acts like one.

Sam’s big awakening to the existence of people who like their own gender was in middle school, and like any stupid self-righteous little brother, he had to start criticizing Dad and Dean’s glaring insensitivity towards people with homosexual leanings. Why awkward little acne-stricken Sammy decided to do this at the dinner table and in front of the more important members of the family, Dean will never know.

“You all use words like homo and gay and fairy in derogatory ways, and it’s bad,” Sam lectures them, and nobody pays them any attention, since he’d also been talking about how they should all just try to get along with other families a few weeks ago. “Gay people are people too!”

“Dean, after dinner,” their dad had said, in front of the whole table.

Most of them took that to mean _you can bitch at Sammy when dinner’s over_ , but Dean knew that it meant _after dinner, tell your little brother you like men so he’ll shut up and I won’t have to deal with this_.

Dean obeyed.

Sam wore a rainbow-colored bracelet all of next week, and only stopped when Dean stared at him and said _Dude, you look even gayer than usual with that thing on._

\---

They’re back in the car elevator after a horrible, awful, no good, very bad silence, when Castiel says, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Dean doesn’t know if he means metaphorically or physically or if he’s saying something about his job (or about missing work), so he clears his throat. “Well, maybe I can help you figure it out.” He waves his hand through the air, indicating The Entire World in a way that would probably make Vana White cry, but whatever, he’s not a professional gesturer and doesn’t want to be anyway. “Right now, we’re in my car, in my car’s elevator, in my apartment building. You’re sitting next to me and staring out the window.” He pauses. “And the car’s in neutral, but I don’t think that helps.”

Castiel looks at him finally, and Dean has no idea what to make of that expression. “Dean, tell me something you don’t want to tell me.”

And he’s _serious_.

Dean’s getting really sick of all these uncomfortable make-or-break conversations they’ve had, so Dean does something stupid. “I don’t want to tell you that I think Anna is an awful big sister, and I think it’s horrible that you think she qualifies as a caring family member.”

Castiel actually glares at him. “Do you always have to make it about me?” Which is kind of weird, and usually reversed, but whatever. “And she’s done things for me that I can never repay.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean huffs out an angry not-quite-laugh. “Alright, Cas, what the hell makes her complete lack of love for you okay?”

“And you define being a good sibling by love?” Castiel asks, sounding shocked, and it makes Dean want to hunt Anna down and punch her face in.

Dean’s probably grabbing the steering wheel a little too hard, but can you blame him? “Yeah, I do. I take care of Sammy because I love him, not because we have the same parents.”

“It’s taking care of your younger sibling that matters, not the emotion behind it,” Castiel states, looking back out the window. “Anna did that, so she qualifies as a good older sister, no matter what her motivation was.”

Dean wants to start shouting, but he’s done with arguments. He’s had too many already, and he’s reaching his quota of serious fights or conversations for the day, so he grits his teeth and just shakes his head. “I learn a little more about you every day, Cas.”

“And when will you return the favor?” Castiel asks.

It’s not quite cold, but there’s definitely a bite to the words, so Dean gives him a grin he’d been happy to keep on the back burner since he got back from hell and says, “Alright, how about this? I promise that the moment someone’s trying to kill me and my secrets have a reason for it, I’ll tell you them.”

Castiel actually looks hurt.

“I didn’t-” Dean starts, but Castiel unbuckles his seatbelt and slides out of the car, even as the elevator keeps ascending. When the garage door opens and Dean shifts the Impala into drive, Castiel’s already gone.

\---

Jenny Fuller was the first girl to ever dump him.

When he’d asked why, shocked and confused beyond what his thirteen years could deal with, she shook her head. “I just feel like I don’t know you.”

Dean didn’t understand what she meant until seven years later. When he does, he really wishes he still thought it was the biblical sort of ‘know’ and he only had to worry about sex. Sex is way easier to deal with than emotional baggage.


	4. Castiel vs Dean's Rampant Misconceptions

The rest of the day goes like this:

Dean walks into the kitchen? No Cas.

Dean walks into the rec room? No Cas.

Dean walks the enormous balcony that rings his apartment and just happens to go in front of Guest Room #1’s windows and glance inside every now and then? No Cas.

And he keeps looking, but not really looking. He’s just, you know. Exploring. In his own home. Hey, it’s a big apartment, he’s allowed to not be familiar with every corner.

When he does find Castiel, Dean kind of wishes he hadn’t, because the guy’s sitting in one of Dean’s vibrating massage chairs looking scandalized by what the chair is doing. He knows it’s the one with the heavy-duty back rollers that travel all the way into the seat so yeah, he’s kind of justified. Sam calls it the rape chair for a reason.

“The other ones are nicer,” Dean points out from the doorway.

“I agree,” Castiel says uneasily. “They were much more pleasant. I saved the one with least use for last.” He stops the chair, taking a deep breath before standing a little shakily. Dean can understand that, since it’s also a deep tissue massage chair. “Although I don’t understand why you’d keep a chair you don’t like, let alone have an entire room of vibrating chairs.”

“Massage chairs,” Dean corrects, even though he can read the _you can’t fool me, for I have felt them jiggle_ expression loud and clear. “Have you seriously just been sitting around in here for the past few hours?”

“I don’t have anything else to do, since I’m under someone else’s house arrest,” Castiel says, but oddly enough there’s not as much icy wrath in the worlds. He says it like his life’s become some half-funny joke.

Dean smiles anyway, because hey, no outright fighting is always a plus. “You’re using these chairs all wrong, Cas,” he says, and heads for his personal favorite. “Bet you didn’t even turn on the ceiling.”

Castiel stares at him. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, you will,” Dean says smugly, patting the chair next to him, which Castiel sits in after a moment of hesitation. “First, recline. And then, you push this magical blue button on the back of the controls of any of the chairs.”

And the ceiling is suddenly a crystal-clear image of the Mediterranean Sea, sea breeze whipping off it and twisting the Cyprus trees’ leaves gently on their branches.

“If you don’t like this one, I’ve also got deep forest with four kinds of weather in all four seasons, Northern Pacific ocean with a whale that shows up at random, Monument Valley in winter or summer including optional cowboys-”

“Do you have the sky?” Castiel asks.

Dean sighs, at peace. “Do I ever.” He presses a button, flipping past birds and breezes, and they sit back silently to watch the Leonid meteor shower flit through the artificial night sky above them.

\---

When Dean was little, his Mother would sit on the roof of their house with him, holding him close and pointing to the stars. She would name every one of them, tell him the stories behind them, and speak to him of sailors and monsters and gods in the sky.

When he was little, his favorites were Orion and Scorpio, chasing each other endlessly through the night sky. They were proud and fierce and fighting each other until the day the impossible happened and they could look each other in the eye and finally see who came out on top.

Now, though, his favorite is Cygnus. The story goes that Phaeton’s reckless chariot-driving forced Zeus to throw him out of the chariot and into the water below, since Phaeton was about to burn the planet to a cinder, and his best friend Cygnus dove into the water to try and save him. And, when Cygnus couldn’t save him, he kept on trying, until the gods took pity on him and turned him into a swan and put him in the stars.

He doesn’t know how being a star swan is supposed to make Cygnus feel any better, but Dean thinks Cygnus is a pretty upstanding guy if he’s so devoted it takes getting turned into a swan, and _then_ into a constellation, to stop trying to save his best friend.

\---

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but sometimes you make me feel like a kid again,” Dean tells Castiel over a bowl of cereal.

Castiel frowns at him. “…I’m not sure if I’m taking that the right or wrong way.” He sips some coffee, thoughtful and pensive and puzzling it out like Dean’s seen people consider serious international business decisions. “Thank you.”

Dean grins. “You don’t sound too sure about your answer.”

“That’s because I’m not sure if being a child or an adult is better,” Castiel tells him.

He shrugs easily. “I only get it sometimes, so I get a little of both worlds.”

Castiel looks close to smirking, smug and amused. “You’re welcome, then.”

Dean doesn’t tell Castiel how he also makes Dean feel very old, or feel like an awkward teenager, or a teacher, or a brand new student, or like the million other things Dean’s never thought were inside of him. Castiel seems to wake old parts of him up in new ways over and over, and the man never even notices.

\---

Dean’s apartment is enormous, and he only had a say in about a third of what’s in it. Not that he minds, since it also doubles as a diplomatic embassy for visiting families that are on good enough terms to be allowed to sleep in Winchester territory without more than a few people watching them snore. Twenty people tops, and you might get a room in Chateau Dean Winchester.

So, one third is Dean’s, another third is technically Winchester Family’s, and the other third is for whatever anyone thinks it needs to be. It has wood floors, walls painted a nice clean white, a loft-like ceiling, and the occasional iron column to keep the roof up. It’s been an art gallery, a ballroom, a gambling hall, and plenty of other mostly-legal things.

Dean’s considering rebelling a little and turning it into a racetrack.

\---

The star-ceiling and cereal calmed Castiel down enough that they’re Friends again, but there’s still a gap between them that has Dean twitching with every flick of Castiel’s eyes. He looks away from Dean, and Dean starts _fretting_. And not just any fretting. Oh, no. It’s a kind of fretting that’s a cross between a helicopter mom and a first date, with a dash of witness protection on top of it.

So, he leaves Castiel alone when he falls asleep in the most uncomfortable armchair in the apartment and calls Sam, because no matter the problem, even Sammy laughing at him over it seems to make everything a little more doable.

“Dean, you two need to get out of that apartment,” Sam tells him. “It’s huge, and it’s safe, but some people don’t react well to being cooped up in one place. You’re one of those people, and I have a feeling Cas is too.”

Dean frowns. “Since when do you call him Cas?”

“Since I realized you’re actually honest-to-god trying to be good for him,” Sam replies, and leaves Dean sputtering out halfhearted denials at nothing but dial tone.

\---

Dean sits down for a while and tries to think of a safe destination for them to head to, just to go somewhere for a while, and the only thing he can think of is…well. He doesn’t like it, but it’s for Castiel, isn’t it?

The other man’s awake and absently reading a book about horses when Dean walks in and asks, “Want to go volunteer in the soup kitchen?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, like it’s a rhetorical question. Dean can see why, since he’s been doing his damndest to keep Cas as shut away as possible.

“Do you want to go now? It’s our shift today, after all.”

Castiel looks up from the book, eyes intent and assessing. “I’d like that, yes.”

And that’s how they end up back on Taft Avenue, with Dean taking Castiel’s usual shift on the serving line so he can keep his friend (yes, friend, and they are going to _always_ be friends if Dean has any say in the matter and probably even if he doesn’t) out of the way. Ellen’s kind of irritated and Castiel’s _really_ irritated, but he gets his way. It’s only twenty minutes that he’ll be serving, after all.

What could go wrong?

\---

Dean’s conscience has a bad habit of sounding like Sam. It used to sound like his dad, but then he realized the advice his dad-sounding conscience gave him wasn’t exactly moral.

 _Deeean, there’s a reason you don’t work outside the kitchennnn,_ his Sam-like conscience says.

 _Come onnnn, Dean, you have to think about your own safety too,_ his Sam-like conscience says.

It’s never a good idea to have your little brother as your conscience, because every word he hears is tinted with the thought _dude, you used to try and eat legos_.

\---

Turns out that a hell of a lot can go wrong when he’s on the line, since in the first two minutes he’s spilled two bowls of soup and nearly scalded Betty with a soup ladle and already had four people look intently at his face in that _is he or isn’t he_ sort of way. Dean’s guessing it’s not just sexuality they’re searching his eyes for, since one of them gives him a respectful, wary nod before heading away with Castiel’s Mystery Soup.

The only warning Dean gets is a terrified scream, and then there’s a soup bowl slamming into his head and a woman grabbing him by the front of his shirt, eyes wild and crazy as she screams and slams him into the wall. Dean’s head smashes against the wall and he can barely think. People are trying to grab the woman, but others are coming towards him too, and he can barely see as she curls her right hand into a fist and punches him in the side of the head again and again and again.

“You sick fuck,” she shrieks, tears bursting from her eyes and sobs breaking her words, and all the fight goes out of Dean. “The things you _did_ to us! You sick motherfucker!”

“Dean!” he hears someone shout, but his vision’s already getting blurry and he’s far too familiar with the way you can hear things that aren’t there when your head’s getting slammed into things.

She punches him in the stomach, kicks his knees out from beneath him. Dean deserves it. “I’m sending you back to hell, you sick-” the woman screams, pulling one of the bread knives from the serving table, but the slam of a big wooden spoon against her head stops her flat. Castiel swings it like a miniature baseball bat, and it sends the woman stumbling away. When she yells and comes charging again, Castiel punches her hard enough that she actually spins, and Castiel keeps her turning with a merciless kick that sends her sprawling on the floor.

Castiel is standing over him with a still-dripping stirring spoon in his right hand, clothing covered in his stained sugar-pink apron and what looks suspiciously like blood, glaring the rest of the room into fierce don’t-fuck-with-me submission, and Dean’s pretty sure he’s never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

“I’ll take care of it, Dean,” Castiel says without even looking at him.

Right before he passes out, Dean admits that yes, he is hopelessly, mindlessly, madly in love with Castiel Novak, and doesn’t doubt he will be until the day Dean is murdered, just like he deserves.

\---

In the days when Dean Winchester wore suits with sharp corners and cold vicious colors and thought he was untouchable and invincible, he’d thought he was happy.

Now, on cold nights, Dean imagines he can feel bare bones sliding over his skin, slowly burying him in decay.

On warm nights, he feels coated in the sticky scent of fear and indifference, suffocating him.

In the times between, sometimes Dean thinks he can’t feel anything at all.

\---

Dean’s father is sitting next to him when he wakes up. The man is a burst of solid black and grey in Dean’s primer-painted bedroom. Dean hasn’t been able to choose the new color.

“Hey, Dean,” John Winchester says, giving him a small exhausted smile. “How you feeling?”

“Kind of drugged,” Dean says honestly, watching the colors of his father blur against the walls like some fireless smoke.

“That’d be from the drugs,” his father says, words sounding something like humor. “You got beat up pretty bad, but we’re getting you fixed up. You have a miraculous lack of broken bones.”

“That’s not a miracle, that’s Cas,” Dean says, even though a part of his brain – a very distant, very irritating part of his brain – is telling him not to. “Cas and his spoon.”

His dad makes an amused noise. “I heard about that. He’s pretty talented with that thing for a guy who can’t cook soup worth a damn.”

“His soup is worth fifty damns,” Dean tells his father very seriously.

“You’re awfully concerned about defending his soup for a man who just got beat to hell,” his father says. “I need to talk to him, don’t I.”

“He’s weird,” Dean warns. “Weird and pretty.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” his dad says, and Dean passes out again.

\---

Dean dreams he’s in a tower with one window and feels like he knows this story. It’s kind of tragic when he looks in a dream mirror and sees he’s bald.

But then he sees the strange-shaped wooden ladder that’s right below his window. The thing looks like it’s been sitting there, waiting for Dean to see it long enough to weather a little. It looks like the weathering might have caused some cracks, and really his tower’s got plenty of food and a kickass entertainment room so there’s no need to go anywhere.

“Dean, if you don’t climb down that ladder, so help me God I will shove you out that window,” Sam’s giant floating head says. “With my enormous floating tongue.”

“Dude, that’s gross and uncalled for,” Dean says, but climbs down the ladder anyway, wondering how the hell the sky started turning sugar pink.

\---

When Dean wakes up, the drugs have worn off and he feels like screaming for a second. He considers throwing things until he tries to move his arms and they just shoot pain into his nerves and ache and throb for half an hour afterwards, at which point they settle down to the same soreness he has everywhere else.

He is alone, and he is tired, and he considers letting himself break down and sob from the guilt and the pain and that horrible feeling where he wishes he’d never woken up. It’s like the return of an old bitter acquaintance, like some mangy cat that just won’t stop clawing him when he tries to shoo it away. He has an IV drip and he has flowers on his coffee table near the sofa and he has nobody in the room to act strong for.

Dean has a lurking suspicion Sam arranged this, that Sam wanted him to have some alone time. Sam knows too much, has always been too smart for his own (or anyone else’s) good.

So, he lets himself cry. He turns his head into the pillow and lets himself think he deserves to die, and hates that he doesn’t want to anymore. He hates the way he hopes Castiel will swoop in and be strange and familiar and comforting in his irregularities, hates the way he appreciates Sam’s consideration to give him this free period to hate himself, hates the way his father trusts him enough to get along without supervision and even hates the way his father’s right to do so.

He hates himself, and he hates what he’s done, and he hates that he’d do it all exactly the same and sometimes even _misses it_ , but most of all he hates the fact that Dean Winchester, torturer extraordinaire, doesn’t want to die anymore.

\---

A man once told Dean that there comes a point where you can get used to anything. Flying pigs, frozen hell, sheep dogs being half dog and half sheep, you name it, this man said you got used to it after a while.

He’d thought about that sometimes, during those four months. He’d look at the concrete walls and the windowless buildings and hear the people he didn’t even see as human anymore, and he’d think there wasn’t anything strange going on, not one bit.

\---

The next time Dean wakes up, Castiel is being freakish and staring him straight in the face, bent over the bed. “You twitch in your sleep.”

“Good morning to you too,” Dean says with as little emotion as he can manage, because it’s Castiel, and he’s about six inches away from Dean’s face, and it’s _Castiel_.

“Even your nose was twitching,” Castiel adds. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen that before.”

Dean stares at him. “I have no idea what you’re trying to tell me.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to. You have a head injury,” Castiel says, and moves back to sit in the chair. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you sooner. I came as soon as I could, but I didn’t know what was going on until the screaming started.”

Dean sighs. “I really don’t want to talk about that right now, and believe me, you have nothing to apologize for. You saved my life, Cas.”

“Nonetheless, I’d have preferred to get to you earlier,” Castiel says, like some unstoppable train of selective hearing. “And you’ll be talking about it whether you want to or not.”

He’s almost surprised it doesn’t hurt to give Castiel an extremely doubtful expression. “You’re going to force me to talk about my feelings?”

“No, I’m going to remind you of your promise to tell me what your traumatic secret is the moment someone’s trying to kill you because of it,” Castiel says. “I’ve never taken you for a man who would go back on a promise.”

Dean remembers saying that. Dean remembers that he’s kind of an idiot sometimes.

“Alright, here’s what you get to know for now,” Dean says. “Sam did something stupid and was going to get killed, and I made a deal for four months of imprisonment if they’d leave him alone. They tortured me, and then I tortured people, and then it was over.”

And Castiel is just watching him, not an ounce of judgment in his eyes, and Dean’s mouth just starts talking, saying, “It was over, and I wanted to die because I missed it so damn much and hated myself for it, and I try so hard to not be that guy anymore. I don’t want to be some kind of sadistic bastard. I’m _not_ a sadistic bastard, I just miss knowing there was one thing to do and knowing I could do it well, is that such a bad thing?”

“Torturing people is frowned upon, but a job well done never is,” Castiel says, words easy and honest, and Dean almost expects him to shrug and start talking about the weather. “You’ve done bad things, but you know they were bad and refuse to do them again. You’re very redeemable, Dean.”

And shit, Dean’s gonna start crying. “I don’t think you get it, Cas.”

“You’re probably right. I usually don’t,” Castiel says just as simply as before. “But I care enough to try.”

Dean sniffles and feels like an idiot, and he turns his head and feels like a little six year old girl, and he tries not to cry but _does_ , and Castiel just sits next to the bed, quiet and seeming content to just be there.

\---

“I am so madly in love with him that I can’t stand it,” he tells Sam, whispering desperately. “I’m going insane. I think the way he _sneezes_ is amazing. How do I fix it?”

Sam sighs at him and gives him that _you’re dumb but you’re family_ look that Dean hates. “You can’t fix it. You can tell him and see what happens.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Dean says, and wishes Castiel wasn’t asleep on the couch in the same room.

“Why not? I don’t think he’d up and leave you,” Sam says. “He’s weird, but he’s not cruel.”

“He’s not…” Dean stops, trying to think of the right word. “He’s not prepared for hearing that. He has serious issues, and I’m not going to mess around with his head.”

“Heart, you mean,” Sam says.

“No, I mean head,” Dean says, dead serious. “He wouldn’t see it like we see it. He’d…I don’t know. But I do know he wouldn’t see it like we do.”

Sam frowns at him. “So what are you going to do, just pine away for weeks or months or _years_ until you think he’s adjusted enough to the world to hear you’re going crazy because of him?”

Dean thinks about it. Dean thinks, and he sighs, and it makes his chest hurt. “Yep.”

\---

Dean watches Castiel as he types away on a laptop and checks four phones and acts like a genuine secretary. And he’s a hell of a secretary, really, using this better-than-thou-but-deigning-to-take-your-call voice that clearly gets shit done, and gets it done efficiently.

“You are wasted as a secretary,” he tells Castiel.

“I like my job,” Castiel says, just like he has the other four times Dean’s commented on how Castiel could do so much more with his abilities. “And I like being able to schedule a meeting during my employer’s lunch hour every time he annoys me.”

“Which is often, I’m guessing,” Dean says, smiling when Castiel shrugs just enough to tell Dean he’s right and that Castiel really genuinely doesn’t think much of it. “You could be a super-secretary for someone who doesn’t annoy you, you know.”

“I thought you’d understand the simple pleasure I get from manipulating Zachariah’s schedule, but clearly I was wrong,” Castiel says in that deadpan teasing way of his.

It is very strange to be around someone who not only references Dean’s history as a torturer casually, but also makes a joke from it. It’s probably even weirder that Castiel doesn’t seem to think it’s strange. Weirdest is that when Castiel says it, Dean actually thinks it’s kind of funny.

Castiel actually looks away from the laptop when Dean lets out a light laugh. He’s frowning his thoughtful frown, the one where he picks Dean apart without even realizing he’s doing it. “You’re acting strange today.”

Dean stares at him. “Dude, you did not just call me strange. You, of all people, did _not_ just say that.” When Castiel just keeps frowning his dangerously intelligent frown, Dean sighs. “I slept well, alright? Excuse me for being in a good mood.”

“You’re lying,” Castiel says, but doesn’t look offended.

Dean rolls his eyes. “And how would you know that?”

“You were screaming in your sleep again last night,” Castiel replies, and notices what has to be a shocked expression on Dean’s face. “I kept everyone out, don’t worry.”

“Thanks,” Dean says a little more vacantly than he’d like. At least he’d learned why his throat was so sore when he woke up.

Castiel just nods. “Are you going to tell me the real reason you’re acting differently?”

Dean considers the question. “Nope.”

“Alright,” Castiel says, and is back to being super-secretary. “I’d suggest you take a nap. Your body is still healing.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be doing this in an office?” Dean points out.

“I have a little over three months of vacation stored up,” Castiel says. “I threatened to use it all. They’re willing to let me work from home for a while.”

“You work too hard,” Dean says, but he can see what Castiel’s saying about the nap idea. He never thought watching Castiel work could be so exhausting. Hell, he never thought talking and keeping his eyes open at the same time could be so exhausting.

“Also, my brother might be visiting,” Castiel says. “He wants to meet you and I can’t stop him completely, so he’ll probably manage to sneak in no matter what I do.”

Dean sighs. “He’ll get shot.”

“He would probably just stand back up and mock his shooter,” Castiel replies.

“I thought all your brothers are dead,” Dean says, and really hates the fact he’s falling asleep.

He’s awake enough to notice the fond little smile that creeps onto Castiel’s lips. “The recorded ones are, yes. Gabriel’s always been a bit…elusive.”

 _What a boring angel name_ , Dean thinks, and passes out.

\---

Dean’s getting really fucking sick of dreaming, but here he is again, watching Castiel stand in front of him and never see him. He jumps. He waves his arms. He screams and shouts and begs, and Castiel just keeps looking through him.

 _What could possibly be more important than looking at me?_ Dean thinks, and turns around. Anna is there, watching Castiel right back with no love in her, no love at all, and behind her is the broken-down apartment door and corpses hung easily from hooks along the hallway.

With dreams like these, Dean almost misses Alistair.

\---

Gabriel, it turns out, is this smirking bastard with slicked-back brown hair and a sucker in his mouth. “Heard my brother nearly killed some people for you,” he says instead of a greeting, so that tells Dean they’re family better than anything else could. Novaks never bother with manners.

Dean’s well enough to be out of bed, thank god, so Dean’s sprawled in his favorite chair and dressed and feeling a hell of a lot more confident than he would have a few days ago. He still hates this stupid napping thing, since the last time he’d had his eyes open had been watching Sam tiptoe out his door. “I don’t know about killing people, but sure, that sounds right.”

“You were probably too busy getting your ass handed to you to notice,” Gabriel says, waving a hand like it doesn’t matter. “I know Cas. He’d have killed them if he needed to. Done it before, after all.”

Dean might be dreaming. That’s what he tells himself, at least. He stares at Gabriel and tries to think of something to say other than _that doesn’t sound like Cas_ because really? Dean’s starting to think it sounds exactly like Castiel.

Gabriel sits himself down in the adjacent chair. “I’m guessing he didn’t tell you then. Can’t say I blame him. That entire year was a mess. The important thing here, though, is the fact Cas actually thinks you’re worth killing someone for.” The man grins, leaning towards Dean. “I want to know what the hell’s so special about you, Dean.”

“I’m a mafia prince with PTSD,” Dean says, tired already, god damn it. “Why the hell do you think I need to be more special than that? What you see is what you get, buddy.”

Gabriel waves his sucker at Dean, scowling. “You aren’t being very helpful, Dean.”

Which is when the door slams open and Castiel comes storming towards them. “You,” he says, pointing at Gabriel. “Out.”

“Since when do you get to tell me what to do?” Gabriel asks, apparently finding the entire situation hilarious. “Someone who’s a lower rank, younger, _and_ not as loveable as me doesn’t get to shout at me like I’m some naughty dog peeing on the couch-”

“Get out or I’ll shoot you,” Dean says.

Gabriel smirks, ignoring Dean completely in favor of pointing his sucker directly at Castiel. “You haven’t told him what really happened to your much-loved twin Jimmy, have you?”

And Castiel looks _scared_. It is so wrong, so very very wrong to see that expression on his face, and it makes something in Dean tense as he puts Gabriel’s implications together. Why he refuses to change anything in Jimmy’s apartment. Why he’s so used to families not loving each other. Why a guy like Castiel Novak, so removed from any sort of normal social behavior, would feel compelled to volunteer incessantly at a soup kitchen when he can’t cook and nobody seemed to even like him before Dean showed up.

“Gabriel. You’ve never hated me enough to do this,” Castiel whispers, terrified and looking so ready to run that Dean’s amazed he’s as still as he is.

“You’re right,” Gabriel says, swinging his empty hand towards Dean. “It’s for your own good, you know. I wiped any record of your existence, and I can do it again. They can catch you if you’re around this guy, and it’s not like a _Winchester_ would willingly hang out with a fratricidal guy like you.”

Dean thinks of the pictures Castiel took so much care to bring with him, thinks of the happy identical twins with their arms thrown around each other, and thinks _please god, please please please don’t let it be true._

“Come on,” Gabriel says, looking like an exhausted older brother more than anything else as he puts the sucker back in his mouth. He walks towards Castiel and his own arm goes across Castiel’s tense shoulders in some twisted parody of that same picture burned into Dean’s eyes. Gabriel isn’t looking at him. Even Castiel isn’t looking at him. “Let’s go somewhere you won’t get killed, alright? I’ll buy you some cake.”

Castiel looks scared, and confused. It makes him look young and vulnerable and like everything Dean had slowly been learning he actually isn’t. And when he looks away from Gabriel and his eyes snap to Dean’s own, Dean can barely recognize him. “But Dean hasn’t recovered-”

“You’re not a doctor, and I’m pretty sure he’s got a good thing going here,” Gabriel says with a roll of his eyes. “He doesn’t need you.”

“Yes I do,” Dean means to say, but his mouth won’t move. Nothing in him will move. He knows he’s probably in shock, which is just _stupid_ to be in shock from…

Christ, he can’t even think it.

“Come on,” Gabriel says, and even though he’s shorter he manages to drag Castiel along with him as he heads for the open door.

“Cas,” Dean manages to say.

“Don’t even try it,” Gabriel says viciously, and the way he says it makes Dean wait for the slice of a blade into his skin and lazy reedy singing. _Don’t bother fighting, Dean. You’re helpless. You’re helpless, and I win._

Castiel doesn’t even look back as he walks out. Gabriel, on the other hand, winks.

He sits tired and helpless and wounded and so fucking pathetically traumatized in his chair and tries to convince himself this has all been some drug-addled hallucination and he’ll wake up and ha-ha, wasn’t that another messed up dream? At least there was no giant Sam licking him, right? Isn’t that funny, Cas? Isn’t it?

\---

When Sam comes into his room two days later, Dean already knows what he’s going to say.

“I don’t know where they went,” Sam says. “Not yet, at least. But we’ll find them.”

“There is no Gabriel Novak,” Dean says, looking up from Castiel’s laptop. He’s in pain, but he refuses to get back in the fucking bed. Sam’s pissed about it, but fuck that. “There’s no Castiel Novak, either. If you can tell me how the hell we’re going to find them when there’s nothing we can do but put up wanted posters and hope someone calls us, I’d like to hear it.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Well, I know better than to ask the people we have find people how they do it, so I can’t give you an answer. But it seems pretty effective, so if you’d like to stop sulking and ranting like a _child_ , Dean, I’d appreciate it.”

He wants to shout at Sam and tell him he has no idea what it feels like to have sat there in shock unable to do anything, but he remembers Jessica and the bullet and pulling Sam away from her bloodless body, so he doesn’t.

Dean calms down.

“We’ll find them,” Dean agrees, and when Sam leaves the room, he slides into one of his favorite suits, shaking fingers doing up button by tiny button.


	5. Dean vs The Novak Conspiracy

Dean believes in the family business.

He believes in family. He believes that, deep down, it is family you can rely on. It’s family that gets things done. It’s family that controls people’s lives, and it’s family that _should_ control people’s lives. Dean believes that it is a brutal but efficient and fair way of doing business. Live up to your side of the bargain, and everything goes smoothly. Cooperate, and everyone usually comes out happy.

His father is so happy to have Dean back as next in line that there are honest-to-god tears in his eyes. A proud smile. A hand on the back of his neck as his father says, “Welcome back, Dean.”

Dean believes, for the first time in a very, very long time, that he can do this.

\---

Hunting down Anna Novak is easy when you’re Dean Winchester. She’s going by Anna Milton, and Dean has to roll his eyes at the Paradise Lost reference. Novaks. They just can’t pass up a chance to reference angels.

When he kicks her locked apartment door in, she’s sitting at the kitchen table working on her laptop. She doesn’t even look up at him or the three men who follow him in. “You’re not going to get any answers from me, Dean,” Anna says. “Gabriel never liked me. I only survived because of Castiel, and he’s not talking to me either, so I’m a dead end.”

“Not exactly,” Dean says, and sits in the adjacent chair. He gently shuts the laptop. “You can tell me what happened to your messed up family, for one.”

Anna looks at Dean like he’s a fly to be swatted, even though she has to know he’s armed and dangerous. And if she doesn’t know he is, there’s no question about the other guys still standing in the doorway. “I won’t tell you anything you don’t already know.”

Dean really doubts that. He has collections of autopsies and 911 calls and the occasional article in the newspaper and the throwaway references that Castiel gave him, and Dean hoards them all ferociously, but there’s only so much you can do with outsider information. “Tell me anyway.”

\---

The Novaks were never a healthy family. It’s not exactly a surprise or any sort of revelation, but the extent of it? The sheer _wrongness_ that seemed to infect them? Dean would never have guessed.

Four years ago – nearly five – a woman named Amelia Novak drove her husband James and her daughter Claire back from a celebratory dinner. Jimmy had been promoted, and they were going to move to Pontiac, Illinois for the new job.

The family did not approve.

Castiel had met them at the restaurant, which was an exciting surprise for Jimmy and Claire and a grudgingly welcome change of pace for Amelia. He was working as a pilot for a small local airline, and by all accounts was happy, for the most part. Or at least he was content. He arrived late and left early, and Amelia drove her small happy family home.

Claire was in the driver’s side back seat of their respectable sedan, so when the SUV slammed into the car’s left side going 50 MPH in a 35 MPH residential zone, she and Amelia were the ones that died. Jimmy only had a bad case of whiplash as the crumple zones in the car did their job, and shock when he realized what had happened. The credibility of people in shock is always dubious, but Jimmy swore all the way to his grave that, while the driver of the SUV was definitely dead, he saw his brother Lucifer step out of the backseat. He said it was Lucifer that pulled Jimmy out of the wrecked sedan, and it was Lucifer who took him back to the family’s apartment.

And, when Jimmy told Castiel it was undoubtedly their big brother Lucifer who murdered his wife and child, Castiel acted like anyone would expect of him. He investigated. He took his time. He told his brother to think it through, he tried to console his little brother and make him listen to everything Castiel was finding.

What Castiel was finding was, quite simply, not conclusive.

Jimmy bought a gun, went over to Lucifer and Michael’s apartment, and missed shooting Lucifer in the head by nearly a foot, his bullet landing in the man’s shoulder instead, despite only six feet separating them. Jimmy had never shot a gun in his life. When Michael came home, Lucifer had a bullet in his shoulder and Jimmy had four in his chest and one in his head.

And that was when the war started.

Everyone blamed everyone else. The brothers took sides. Gabriel ran off instead of doing a damned thing to help (or harm) his brothers, although he left a number for Castiel to call (he’d always had a soft spot for Castiel and his unintentionally hilarious ways). Uriel, last in rank and fourth in age, claimed to be anti-Lucifer. Anna considered herself an anti-traditionalist, against the family’s unhealthy ‘us against the world’ policies. Raphael was a traditionalist through and through. Michael seemed to hang in the air waiting for their ever-absent father’s command. And Castiel, already considered to be the crux of the conflict and the king of the anti-traditionalist side, just wanted to survive.

The first casualty other than Jimmy was Uriel. When he tried to kill Castiel, Anna stabbed him in the back. They dumped his rock-laden body in the river, and Anna left.

Next was Raphael. He went to kill Castiel, and was found dead on the floor of the apartment’s kitchen, cold corpse still clawing for the phone hanging on the wall.

And then something soured between Lucifer and Michael. It started with shouting. It ended with Michael drowned in their bathtub and an absent Lucifer, the only sign of him a streak of blood and water that snuck out of the bedroom and onto the street. Nobody knew whether Lucifer was alive or dead. Nobody knew if he’d be after vengeance even if he was alive.

It all happened in a month. One month, and the entire family was destroyed. Something broke inside Castiel, and something died inside Anna, and Gabriel never came back.

Castiel lived in an apartment full of ghosts. It had been decorated by Amelia. It still had a cheery untouched room of yellows and greens made for a little girl named Claire. There were still scuffs on the walls where a crazed Jimmy had smashed things against the wall – vases, picture frames, his fist. There was always an absolutely spotless patch of floor in the kitchen near the phone that Dean had seen Castiel clean over and over and never thought anything of it.

Most of the Novaks are very lucky they’re already dead, because Dean wants to kill every one of them.

\---

It’s two weeks later when Dean realizes he has so much free time because there’s no Castiel to spend it with. He’d been done with the community service requirement months ago, and he knows better than to go back to a place where he’d nearly been beaten to death, so he spends that time working with the family.

They’re at a peaceful time if ever there was one. Dean’s father has a reputation for blunt honesty and vicious retribution when the honesty isn’t returned, and Dean has a reputation for being leaner and meaner since he came back (and they all know he’s willing to do damn near anything for the family), so nobody really feels like testing the Winchesters. Particularly with Sam as their not-so-secret weapon.

You can mess with John Winchester, and you can mess with Dean Winchester, but if you mess with Sam Winchester you get lawyered to death. Sam knows how to take someone apart piece by piece with words, and their father seems unsettlingly happy that both his sons can take someone apart like that, even if one is verbal and the other is physical.

Before Dean lost himself to knives for a few months, Sam was efficient. Now, Sam is a fatal precision strike. He watches his baby brother set his sleek black briefcase on the table and pull out one of those ridiculous designer pens from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, and he can see the man on the other side of the table shudder when Sam pulls the cap off with a little pop sound, like he’d just had a bullet whizz past his ear.

“I have a signed agreement,” Sam says, snapping open the briefcase in a way that perfectly punctuates how well and truly fucked the man across the table is, “in which you promise to pay the family back in full by the end of the year. I assume you’re aware that it’s been three hundred and sixty three days since you signed this agreement, considering we’ve politely provided reminders during the interim.” And really, they had been polite face-to-face reminders – the guy being polite had just been 300 pounds of pure muscle.

“I don’t have the money, but I can get you a guy who has the money and more,” the man says suddenly. “He’s crazy, but he knows people, and he’s got this bag of money – I’ve seen it, I swear, I wouldn’t lie to you.”

And Sam didn’t even have to glare at him. The only trial lawyering experience Sam has was walking Dean in to plead guilty and get sentenced to community service, but Dean looks forward to the day Sam gets to sink his teeth into a courtroom. Well, kind of. Dean would prefer to not be the defendant.

“You’re aware you have two days until your grace period is over,” Sam says.

The man nods frantically. “Yes sir, I can get it in two days, I can get you him, I swear.”

“The agreement requires _money_ , not a man with money,” Sam points out.

The man swallows. “I’ll get the money, swear to god.”

“Wait, hold on, how do we know this bag of money isn’t already ours?” Dean asks, and Sam’s miniscule pout tells him Sam had been having too much fun being a lawyer to think of the possibility. Dean drops his legs from where they’d been propped on the table, and leans towards the man. “What’s this guy’s name?”

“The guys call him Lucy,” the man says immediately. “Last name’s Novak.”

Dean’s brain shorts out for a moment, and Sam’s holding his shoulder when it reboots. “There’s plenty of Novaks, Dean,” he says quietly. Logically.

“Lucy wouldn’t be short for Lucifer, would it?” Dean asks as calmly as possible, because then it starts to make sense.

Why would a big brother, even a terrible one, destroy their kid brother’s life to kidnap him? If Dean thought Sam was in danger, he’d do what Gabriel did (or worse) in a heartbeat. And Castiel actually said Gabriel had been _fond_ of him, which was the closest thing to non-twin brotherhood Dean had heard of in their entire fucked up family’s history. If Gabriel had already deleted Castiel Novak from the universe, that meant he was at least protective.

He was still a son of a bitch, of course, but at least Dean could see that maybe Gabriel wasn’t a heartless bastard.

The man in front of them looks queasy. “I thought that was a bad joke,” he says. “I mean, seriously, who would name their kid _Lucifer_?”

“You don’t want to know,” Dean says, because honestly? Dean’s reached a point where he doesn’t really want to know, either.

Sam squeezes his shoulder again, and it reminds him that Sam is a lawyer, and they’re here for a reason other than chasing Castiel (and his remaining brothers). “We’re willing to give you an extension on your grace period for _reliable_ information on this man,” he says, because he’s a clever little brother.

He takes a deep breath, and the information pours out.

\---

Patience is a learned ability. Dean learned basic patience from a perfect shot from his father and Uncle Bobby, learned the importance of the perfect angle and moment from a pistol and rifle, learned to discipline his body and _wait_. It serves him well, and the years have only honed it.

He learned to be patient mentally when Sammy was born. The baby took their attention, took _everyone_ ’s attention, and it made him learn priorities and to protect and to always wait for Sammy to reach the conclusions on his own. That, or walk out before he gave in to the urge to shake him. The patience changed when Sammy grew up big ( _huge_ ) and brilliant. He learned to listen to people who know better than him, and when not to listen, and has a more or less decent system. Dean can calm his temper, for the most part.

Emotional patience, Dean never learned.

When Sammy was in trouble, when Sam Winchester was sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala wearing still-bloody gloves (thank god he’d been wearing gloves) and the bastards had found them the minute they stepped out of the car, Dean would have done anything. He _did_ do anything. Sam had wanted revenge and he’d gotten it, and now the other family wanted revenge, and Dean couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t. He didn’t wait for his mind to catch up, didn’t wait for the tactical advantage, didn’t even wait to bargain. He offered himself in Sam’s place, and they took him.

He feels the same with Castiel, often. He feels the urge to throw himself in front of whatever monsters Castiel feels he needs to run from, feels like he needs to find him or die trying, feels like every second without him is breaking his sanity apart. But, at the same time, he knows – _knows_ – that Castiel isn’t his to protect and isn’t his to kill for, even though he wants to be, wants it so bad he feels it clawing at his throat in the middle of the night.

Castiel isn’t even there, and Dean’s still changing for him.

\---

Dean loosens his tie. “There’s no way I can leave this alone, and you know it. You wouldn’t be able to if you were me, either.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” his father says, scowling at the coffee table between them. “You got a plan?”

“Basic raid situation,” Dean says with a shrug, trying to feel casual, like this isn’t his first lead on where the hell Castiel went, and might end up being the _only_ lead. “Break in, break him, leave.”

John Winchester isn’t fooled for a second, of course, because not only has he been doing this longer (and better) than Dean, but he’s also his dad. Sometimes it sucks when the head of the family business actually cares about you. “You’ve been out of play for a while, Dean. You sure you can do it?”

Dean smirks. “Oh, I can _definitely_ question him.”

His dad doesn’t look up from the coffee table, which means this is serious. He never meets Dean’s eyes when he’s worried. Not anymore, at least. “You’re not going to have Castiel Novak around when you come back home. And I’ll need you back, Dean. All of you.”

“What, you think I’m going to break?” He tries to not be hurt, and fails. It makes him mad, but he stomps on the emotion – he’s not going to argue angry now, not with his dad. “I was fine before, and I’ll be fine now. I don’t even know why you think I’d need Cas around-”

“You know what he told me?” his father asks, and finally looks up at Dean, looks him hard in the eyes. “You were damn near comatose in that bed, and I walk in to check on you, and he honest-to-god apologized for not saving you fast enough, and swore he’d do better next time.” His dad’s lips quirked slightly. It wasn’t happy, and was more bemused than anything else. Dean could understand that feeling. “A guy who does that isn’t going to let you go without help when you’re hurting, Dean.”

Dean couldn’t think beyond the curtains of _Cas and my dad had a conversation_ and _My dad actually_ likes _Cas_ , and the endless litany started back up in his mind, the _please god yes please oh please please_ as he watched his father. “So what, you want me to sit it out? I don’t think I’m even physically capable of that. He destroyed Cas’ life.”

“And he could do it to you, too,” his father said, and sighed. “I’m not going to tell you what to do, Dean, but I’m telling you that I think it’s a bad idea for you to torture Lucifer Novak. Leave it to someone else.”

He knows his dad’s probably right. If it was someone he didn’t give a damn about and knew deserved it, there wouldn’t be a problem. But this? A chance to torture and kill the man who ripped Castiel’s life and heart apart? He’d like it too much. And then, he might not stop.

It’s a question of control. It all comes down to what he cares more about – hurting Lucifer, or finding Castiel.

“Nobody’s as good as I am,” Dean says.

His father nodded, looking back to the coffee table. “That’s why I’m worried.”

\---

Dean’s starting to not hate himself as much. His dad hasn’t helped that much, but Sam’s helped him along, and Castiel practically shoved him off the roof of the self-loathing skyscraper. He likes being able to look at himself in the mirror and not wanting to smash it. He feels guilty about it, but he’s still grateful.

He can think about Alistair now, which is strange. He doesn’t feel any ill will towards the other family – it was a fair deal, and it was Dean’s fault for not bargaining well enough, and these things just _happen_ when you’re involved in the family business, and he came out breathing, didn’t he? – but Alistair, he wants to rip apart with every one of the clever tricks the man taught him.

And at the same time, he wants to sit him down, look him in the eye, and ask what the hell went wrong in his head. Not just Dean’s brain, but Alistair’s brain too. What the hell turned them into happy torturers? For Dean the answer is most obviously Alistair, but he’s not stupid enough to just point at the man as the only cause. Sam would never have done it. His father would never have done it. There had to be some sinister spark inside him that Alistair managed to twist.

He’s terrified that someday, someone will twist it again.

\---

Dean isn’t in the infiltration group of the raid. He’s not even in the first wave of interrogation. He’s the last resort for interrogation, the big guns they’re keeping for the end and will probably never get to.

His father claps him on the shoulder and tells him he’s got a good head on his shoulders.

Sam doesn’t. Sam sits quietly next to him in the car while the infiltration group picks the townhouse’s lock and slides inside. It’s barely been a week since they got the tip, and Dean’s skin itches to grab his gun and follow them in, but Sam is there. And Sam is smart enough to stop him from doing something stupid, even if Dean doesn’t know it’s stupid.

Dean’s grip on the Impala’s steering wheel is slick and white-knuckled as the team pulls a thrashing blanket-covered man out the front door and into a van. “It’ll all be okay now,” Dean tells himself.

“You know I’m not letting you near him until you’re our final option,” Sam says.

Dean sighs. “Yep.”

“I get how you feel, Dean, but I’m not letting you make my mistakes,” Sam says.

Dean scowls at him. “If you know how I feel, you know it sure as fuck wouldn’t feel like a mistake.”

“I know,” Sam says. “But killing for revenge is different than business. It’s personal. You weren’t really around to see what I turned into after that, which didn’t help any. And I’m not going to let that happen to you.”

Dean huffs out a bitter laugh, starting the car. “You guys are treating me like some fragile little snowflake. I got beat up, not broken.”

“Yeah, and then you got your heart stomped on,” Sam says, looking almost offended. “Dude, we _care_. Dad lost mom. I lost Jess. You’ve lost Cas, but you’ve got a _chance_ , Dean. We just want to make sure you don’t mess it up.”

“It’s mine to mess up, Sam!” Dean snaps, turning the Impala tighter than necessary as they drove onto Polk. “I get that you’re worried, but that doesn’t mean you and Dad get to hold my hand and try to right all your wrongs through me and Cas!”

And Sam goes very, very quiet.

“Shit, I didn’t say that right,” Dean says, glancing over to see Sam watching him. He doesn’t look mad, or hurt. He just looks tired.

“Just don’t screw it up by screwing yourself up,” Sam states, and ignores him the rest of the trip back to Dean’s apartment.

\---

Dean can remember the day his mother was gunned down by an angry rival family. Mostly he remembers the way his mom suddenly stopped pushing him on the swing and Sammy screaming, followed by his dad screaming. Dean’s never heard him scream since. He remembers waiting for the swing to stop going so high, because he couldn’t dare to glance behind him. Dean wasn’t very good at swinging, and was scared to jump off. He was scared, and stuck swaying through the air while his father babbled at something behind him and Sammy kept on wailing.

He still doesn’t like heights.

He remembers the day Jess was gunned down too, vividly. Sam had been barely out of law school and it was the weekend he told the family why exactly he’d broken ties and ignored them. Dean had been happy, their father had actually grinned, and when he drove Sam back to his apartment (and would meet his fiancée Jess in the process) they were greeted by the scent of burnt cookies in the oven and still-warm blood. Dean remembers the buzzer still going off on the oven, and it was the second time he heard Sammy scream, and it was just as horrific.

Dean had every buzzing timer in every apartment, house, and kitchen the Winchesters even _visited_ changed to a beeping noise.

When he tries to think of the moment Castiel left, he can remember it just as sharp and painful as when it happened. But at the same time, it comes with the image of Castiel smiling at him over a pot of terrible soup, of Castiel scowling at cookies and stoves, of Castiel asleep on the couch, of Castiel looking like a drowned cat that’s actually happy about it, of Castiel just standing in front of Dean, still and strange and beautiful and blasé while the world tumbles around them.

He imagines what he’ll do when (if) he finds Castiel. Dean has thousands of scenarios already imagined in his mind, images of running into each other’s arms in airports, or a chance meeting at some soup kitchen in Morocco, or finding him tired and broken in a Mongolian prison.

His dad and brother don’t have that opportunity. They have _if only I’d_ , not _if_.

Dean doesn’t know what would happen to him if he had to live through that.

\---

It’s a cold day in hell, apparently, because they actually call Dean down to the Lesser Guest Quarters the same day. He tries to think his way through what’s happening and whether he should let himself torture the bastard, but in the end he just breathes, and concentrates on creativity.

The fact they send Sam and Andy to fetch him from the elevator isn’t promising. Andy is the unimposing head of questioning, because he has a way of getting in your head before you even realize it’s happening, so that means it’s important Lucifer-related information Dean needs ASAP. The fact Sam’s with him – as in the only person other than his dad (and Cas) that he won’t slam against a wall if they piss him off – means it’s probably _bad_ important news.

“He’s not Lucifer,” Sam says.

Dean stares at him. Sam stares back, looking a little sorry but not enough for him to be lying. He doesn’t even know what to say, because how could they have fucked up this badly? And where the hell _is_ Lucifer?

“He’s named Nick,” Andy adds. “He became an amateur burglar after his pregnant wife died and he fell on some hard times.”

“We’ve put the fear of God in him,” Sam adds. “Your soup kitchen probably has a new volunteer.”

“Great,” Dean states, numb and still tempted to go punch the guy in the face, just for being in that apartment. He takes a deep breath, reminding himself that now, this is business. “Did he see anything useful before we brought him in?”

“Well, for one there was nothing in the place. It looked like the last tenant cleared out pretty quickly,” Andy says, shifting his weight back and forth on his feet. “Nick said the window was already busted in when he entered, and it was the reason he picked the place.”

“A _really_ amateur burglar,” Dean mutters, and frowns, considering what little information they’ve gotten from the entire mess. “You think something scared him off?”

“That’s what we were thinking,” Sam agrees, and looks uncomfortable. “We’re also thinking that maybe Cas is kind of, uh. Bringing the fight to Lucifer.”

Dean gapes at him. “Oh _hell_ no, that’s not happening on my watch.”

“It’s not your watch, Dean, remember?” Sam points out. “And, again - if you were in his position, what would you be doing?”

Sometimes Dean really hates how damn smart and reasonable his little brother is sometimes. It makes him almost miss the temper tantrums. Almost.

“Let him go, then,” Dean says, and runs a tired hand over his face.

Sam puts a hand on his shoulder, which is huge because Sam is some kind of floppy-haired lawyer giant. “We’ll find another lead, Dean. We always do.”

Dean sighs and nods and heads back into the elevator, wishing they’d just find _Castiel_ instead.

\---

He wonders what happened in that apartment. He imagines Castiel charging in and Lucifer jumping out the window, and he imagines Gabriel throwing in a stun grenade and them dragging Lucifer out and taking his belongings with them, and he imagines Lucifer’s window breaking open after someone throws a brick through it and he panicked, and Castiel wasn’t even involved.

Dean also wonders how well Castiel can handle himself in a fight. He knows Castiel can survive, but he doesn’t know if he can _win_ , and the question itches in his mind.

\---

Castiel’s been gone a month and a half when Sam walks in during a teleconference with Shanghai, a strange look on his face. When Dean raises an eyebrow at him, Sam pulls out one of his overpriced pens and writes CASTIEL on one of those yellow legal tablets lawyers always seem to have.

His father immediately gives Dean a quick nod, and Dean politely excuses himself and nearly trips over his rolling chair to get out of the room with Sam. “What is it? Did you find him?”

Sam still looks befuddled, like he just got French kissed by a very lipless duck or something. “He’s still on the payroll from his job at Sandover. He’s still working for them.”

Dean blinks. “Huh?”

Sam throws his hand up in the air. “Dude, I have no clue! We’ve had people watching the building and he’s not there, and we’ve had people watching the phones and he’s sure as hell not actually working for them, so I don’t know. But he’s still getting paid.”

Dean spends about a minute frowning at the air, before he gets it. And he starts laughing. “Oh. Oh my god, Sam, they’re such idiots. _We_ are such idiots.”

“What?” Sam asks, still confused.

“He has three months of vacation stored up and was threatening them with it,” Dean says, and laughs. “God, he’s _on vacation_.”

Sam stares at him, a smile threatening to appear. “He’s planning to come back.”

“He’s coming back,” Dean says, and gives in to his impulse and throws his arms around Sam. “He’s going to come back!”

Sam is laughing too, although it might just be at Dean, but he doesn’t care, because Castiel is going to come back, Cas didn’t leave him, not for all time. Castiel Novak is on vacation, and in six weeks, he’ll come back. He’ll come home.

\---

He’s happy about the three month deadline until he realizes it means he and Gabriel have given themselves a deadline to kill (or maim, or imprison, or whatever) Lucifer.

The panic only gets worse when the end of the third month comes and goes.

And then, he gets The Letter.

\---

It starts with an awkward phone call that Dean only answers because it’s 3AM and he’s awake anyway.

“Uh. Is this Dean Winchester?” the voice on the other end asks, awkward and slurred enough that Dean’s betting there’s plenty of alcohol in the man’s system. “Uh. I got a letter that had a letter to you in it from my neighbor? It says to call you, I don’t-”

“Who the hell are you?” Dean demands.

“Chuck. Chuck Shirley. I live – well, _lived_ I guess – next to the Novak place?” There’s a weak laugh. “Nicest neighbor I ever had, and then I told someone to kick in his door just to get some sleep and he _left_ , can you believe that? Quietest neighbor, too. Before him the couple in there just shouted and argued and-”

“Your neighbor was Castiel Novak?” Dean asks, trying to think back to when he was only worried about Castiel maybe having someone out for his twin’s head, and not Castiel maybe being on his crazy family’s version of a manhunt. The guy probably isn’t lying. Probably. “I’ll be right over.”

\---

The letter to Chuck is simple, requesting his help and giving him Dean’s phone number (the private one, the one he made sure Castiel called because it was the one he always answered) and that he not open the other enclosed letter.

The paper is a thin type of lined stationary, off-white, and he wrote with a dark blue fountain pen, such a dark blue it’s almost black.

Castiel’s writing is just like him – steady-paced, a little bit broken, and difficult to read. He never stays on the lines.

\---

 _Dean_ , it begins, and his hands are shaking so hard he has to put it on a table to read it, because he’s skimmed to the bottom. Dean takes a deep breath, and reads closely, like his life depends on it.

 _Dean,_

 _I hope you are well. I’m glad I met you._

 _You understand, I think, why I’m doing this. Jimmy was my brother, and I can’t abide the thought of his murderer roaming the planet while Jimmy lies in his grave. Your own sacrifice for Sam’s well-being shows the same sort of determination I have. I failed to protect my brother twice, and it ended in the death of his entire family. It’s still killing what is left of the family. This is the only finish I’ve been able to find._

 _Gabriel has informed me that there was a misunderstanding when I left. I did not kill Jimmy. I believe myself physically incapable of hurting him, and I would have been much happier dying in his place. I did, however, kill my brother Raphael. He deserved it. I only regret the way it left a taint of bloodshed in Jimmy’s apartment that no amount of cleaning can remove._

 _Anna should be cleaning the apartment during my absence. ~~Please don~~ If I die and Anna is still alive (which may be unlikely, as she will undoubtedly be his next victim after Gabriel and myself), she will be in charge of it. If it isn’t too much to ask, I’d very much appreciate you looking after it if we are all dead. I’d also appreciate you killing Lucifer if we don’t, but that isn’t as pressing._

 _There are many things I wish I’d been able to do with you. You are a true, if occasionally misguided, friend, but Gabriel has informed me that an occasionally misguided friend is the best kind you can have. I agree. I would have you no way other than exactly how you are. Much of me would rather be with you now than here preparing a murder._

 _I hope you are healthy and at peace, and if you are not, I trust you are inventive enough to force health and peace to come to you anyway._

 _I hope I can see you again._

 _Fondly,_

 _Castiel Novak_

\----

He wants to scream. He wants to squish the letter into a tiny ball of paper and throw it into an incinerator. He wants to press the folds out of it and keep it forever and ever. He wants to just curl up in bed and try to ignore the weight of helplessness pressing down on him.

Dean settles for sitting in the Impala, engine off, letter on the seat next to him, and staring ahead at absolutely nothing.

He is still wearing pajamas.

When the sun begins to rise, Dean drives home.

\---

Dean considers calling Missouri, since she’s the most reasonable person Dean’s ever met and could tell him what to do. He doesn’t after he realizes that her three decades of experience as the Winchesters’ bodyguard would just make her call his father.

He considers calling Sam, but when he looks at the clock and sees it’s barely 6:30AM, he figures the kid needs all the sleep he can get. Dean can wait. It’s not like he has anything else to bother with.

\---

It surprises some people that Dean doesn’t like to gamble. Sure, he’ll (sometimes) risk his own life and the lives of others on something that isn’t definite, but that’s making a decision. He can weigh the odds, and he can trust other factors. It’s not just chance. It’s not just a ball and wheel spinning around, waiting to see where it lands.

He doesn’t have enough information to judge Castiel’s odds.

In a lot of ways, he’s glad not have it.

\---

“We can find him,” Sam says. “If anything, this is good. We’ll hear about it going down, and we’ll get to take care of it.”

“No we can’t,” Dean says. “Nobody really paid attention to the Novaks when they were killing each other in our backyard. You really think anyone’s going to notice in another city?”

Sam is quiet. “You can’t give up.”

“I haven’t,” Dean snaps. “I’m accepting that I can’t do a damn thing, just like you all wanted me to.”

His brother sighs. “If you’re going to be a jerk about it, fine. I’m going to keep looking while you sulk,” he says, and glares at Dean. “Feel free to put some actual clothes on, too. I don’t know if you can stop wallowing for long enough to get to the closet.”

“You are such a bitch,” Dean grumbles.

Sam leaves. Dean takes a shower and puts clothes on.

His suit is sharp and black, and his tie is striped sugar pink.

\---

Dean made a list of things he wanted to do with Castiel when he came home. He hasn’t showed it to anyone, and thinks he’ll never be able to do even half of them, even if Castiel doesn’t end up dead. They range from feeding ducks in the park to sexual fantasies he’ll never admit to. Honestly, he won’t admit to the duck-feeding either.

Number one is the word _hug_. He thinks it should be something more meaningful or maybe raunchier (after all, it’s basically an unreadable wish-list he’ll burn when the embarrassment gets to be too much), but he doesn’t cross it out.

Dean keeps the list in his nightstand, and adds things when he can’t sleep. There are a lot of them. He blames the insomnia.

\---

It’s 7:34PM and his tie’s half off when he gets the call from security, the guard hurried and so excited his words are tumbling over each other, and Dean just heads down.

The elevator doors open up, and Castiel is standing in Dean’s atrium with circles under his eyes and untidy clothing and, weirdest of all, a tiny _Dora the Explorer_ suitcase waiting behind him. He looks like he hasn’t slept for a week and was mauled by a toothless bear the whole time, hair almost completely vertical on the back of his head, and he’s the most beautiful thing Dean’s ever seen in his life.

Castiel spots him standing in the elevator gaping, and he suddenly looks not nearly as tired. It’s like the sun just broke through the grimy glass window that is Castiel’s tired eyes, and the litany starts up in Dean’s head again, the words _please oh god please oh please yes yes yes please please_ snapping through him.

Castiel and his little suitcase roll towards him, and Dean just keeps staring, even when Castiel stops right in front of him.

His mouth opens, and his lips move, and it all coalesces into Castiel making sounds that, Dean realizes, are actually him talking.

“I am so tired,” Castiel says, and sounds it.

“I have beds,” Dean blurts, and tugs him into the elevator. There’s no resistance; Castiel just stumbles in, and the doors shut, and Castiel is actually leaning against him. Dean feels like he is going to _explode_ , even though Castiel doesn’t smell all that great. “So. Uh. Where were you?”

“Armenia,” Castiel mumbles, and sways away from Dean and leans against the side of the elevator. Dean barely avoids pulling him back. “I decided I like Armenia.”

Dean nods, frowning. “How’d you get back so fast?”

Castiel stares at him, tired and frowny, and Dean can read the _what the hell are you talking about_ in it. “I’ve been traveling for almost two days.”

\---

Average flight time (including layovers, and assuming all flights are on time [which they rarely are]) from Armenia: 27 Hours.

Mailing time (standard) from Armenia: 6-10 Days.

Dean feels kind of stupid.

\---

Jet lag is a terrible thing. It’s terrible because it makes your entire body so confused it just decides to collapse, for one. It’s also terrible because there’s just about no way to avoid it – it’s the price of speedy international travel.

Another reason it’s terrible is that Castiel gets into his apartment, makes one lap around the room, and immediately falls onto the couch and passes out. His hand is still on the embarrassing suitcase’s handle, and his shoes are still on, and his face is squished into the cushions and one of his legs is still dragging across the floor.

Dean gets a blanket for him, and gently removes Castiel’s hand from his suitcase (and holds his hand in the process! It’s Castiel’s hand! And Dean is holding his hand! They are holding hands! He’s unconscious, but still! Hand-holding! _He is temporarily holding unconscious Castiel’s hand!_ ) and considers taking his shoes off for him, but decides he’s fine risking the fabric and will just buy another couch instead.

Castiel keeps on sleeping.

Dean wonders if it’d be creepy to take pictures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Be Continued at the same very slow pace I've been writing this at for the past year and a half. :)


	6. Castiel vs The Stove.

Dean is resolved that someday he will find Mr. Novak, and he will punch him in the face. He might lecture him, might do something _really_ nasty to him, but the punch? That’s happening. Even if the man’s nothing but a helpless, starving sack of bones.

\---

Castiel has always had a strange sort of stillness to him, a kind of unassuming quiet that was oddly comforting.

Dean wonders where the hell that went to. Maybe he left it in Armenia and it’s getting shipped back later, because the minute Castiel wakes up, he’s in motion. And not just any motion. _Antsy_ motion.

When he wakes up on the couch, Dean doesn’t even get a hello out (and yes, he’s been sitting in the nearby chair feeling like a horrible creepy stalker, but honestly he’d figured Castiel wouldn’t mind) before Castiel is grabbing the Dora the Explorer suitcase and rolling his way to stand behind the back of the couch, only to start pacing, the tiny suitcase’s wheel squeaking behind him as he moves seven feet, pivots, and walks another seven feet.

He’s been pacing for a good three minutes before Dean clears his throat and says, “You want some water?” Castiel just shakes his head and doesn’t stop pacing. “Airplanes dehydrate you, so it might be a good idea.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Castiel snaps, and finally stops pacing long enough to look Dean in the eye, steady and strangely twitchy. It only lasts a moment, before he looks down at the floor instead.

Call Dean paranoid, but he has a lurking suspicion Castiel is lying.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” Dean asks. He can be a good host when it’s needed, and it seems pretty needed right now. Pleasantries are usually calming for people nearing a nervous breakdown.

“I shouldn’t have come here,” Castiel says instead, and Dean thinks, _oh great, now there’s another person to kill for him_. He’s not sure if that’s good or bad. “I should have stayed away.”

Dean sighs. “Cas, do me a favor and sit down for a second.”

“No,” Castiel says, he and Dora turning towards the kitchen.

“You still look ready to pass out,” Dean calls after him.

“I’ll make sure to not fall on anything expensive,” Castiel bites at him, and what the hell is going on. Dean has no idea how to proceed in the face of an aggressively pissed off Castiel. So, he follows him into the kitchen.

“Everything’s expensive,” Dean says. It being expensive is why he bought it, after all.

“Then I’ll leave,” Castiel says, somehow managing to sound both irrational and superior at the same time. It’d be impressive if it weren’t so irritating and Dean wasn’t almost frantically trying to figure out what was wrong and how to make it better.

Maybe he should call someone, get Sam to come over and do that touchy-feely crap with Castiel. Or maybe he should call an outright psychiatrist, because this has potential emergency written all over it. Dean knows that just looking at the twitch in Castiel’s arms. He’d almost call it withdrawal if he thought Castiel was that kind of person.

Dean settles for blunt honesty, since it seems to work best with Castiel – well, the old version, at least. “Don’t leave,” he says, and sits down at the counter. “Tell me what’s up.”

“Nothing is up,” Castiel says, and it’s oddly charming that he can find the toaster without searching in the kitchen. His words make it less charming, though. _Way_ less charming. “Everything is fine. You don’t need to worry about anything anymore.”

“Except for how my best friend seems like he’s going to pass out or explode,” he snaps back, getting sick of this. “You disappeared for three and a half months, and you come back like _this_ ,” he says, motioning at Castiel, trying to encompass just about everything wrong with the situation, “and you don’t expect me to worry?”

That actually makes Castiel look a little contrite. There’s a smidge of that familiar stillness coming back, Dean can see it in the way his hand stops gripping the counter, but he still won’t look at Dean. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“Well, you did,” Dean states. “So let me try and help whatever’s wrong, alright? That’s what friends are for.”

Castiel’s grip on the suitcase’s handle tightens. “Friends.”

It feels like he’s talking to a toddler version of Sam again. “That’s right. And we’ll start with what’s in the suitcase.”

Castiel doesn’t speak for a very, very long time. Dean waits him out.

“Lucifer,” Castiel finally says, barely audible.

And that sure as hell wasn’t any of the answers he was expecting. Murder weapon maybe, or a million dollars. He’s assuming Castiel cremated him, because unless Cas got _very_ creative, there’d be no other way for him to fit in that tiny thing.

Dean nods, cautious. “What are you going to do with him?”

Castiel lets go of the handle. “There’s a cemetery plot in his name.” He pauses. “Gabriel wanted to be shot into space, but I don’t have the time or money to manage that.”

Dean can’t help how his eyebrows shoot up. “Gabriel’s in there too?”

“No,” Castiel says, finally looking at him and god, for a moment there’s the frown, the _how are you coming to this bizarre conclusion_ frown that Dean missed so much. “Urns are surprisingly large for how few ashes there really are in the end.”

Dean nods. “Do you want help burying him?”

His eyes shift again, and he’s looking at everything but Dean. “No,” he says, and after a moment he and Lucifer-in-Dora roll their way into a guest bedroom, the door quietly clicking shut behind him.

\---

Sam is undeniably the only thing that keeps Dean sane half the time. The other half of the time he’s usually what’s driving Dean crazy, but Dean’s forcing himself to be a glass-half-full kind of guy. When he calls Sam, staring at the guest room door, his voice is almost embarrassingly reassuring.

“I heard Cas is back,” Sam says, and Dean can hear the grin in his voice.

“Yep. He’s wheeling his evil dead brother’s ashes around with him everywhere and I think he’s close to going postal,” Dean says, and turns away from the door to slump in one of the armchairs in the main room. “Fun times.”

“Postal as in losing it, or postal as in a danger to himself and others?” Sam asks, using his lawyer voice.

“Dude, I have no idea,” Dean says, and runs a hand down his face. “I wasn’t expecting rainbows and heavenly choruses or anything, but what the hell, Sam. It almost felt like he was a stranger when he woke up. He wouldn’t even _look_ at me.”

“He wouldn’t look at you?” Sam asks. “Wow. Staring at you’s like his favorite pastime.”

“It is not,” Dean says. “He does crosswords for a minimum of four hours a day, I swear.”

“And he does them while staring at you,” Sam says, and yeah, okay, Dean can admit there’s a lot of talking and watching involved in crossword puzzles when he’s around for them.

“Fine, he stares a lot. Or used to, at least,” Dean says. “Let’s focus on figuring out whether or not he needs suicide watch, alright?”

By now, he can tell when to just let Sam think for a while, mid-conversation or not. When he finally does speak, Dean pays attention. “The guy’s had his heart set on making Lucifer pay for killing his twin. It gave him a distraction, and now he’s got to think about everything that’s happened to him, and everything he’s done. I think he just needs time, Dean.”

Dean nods, even if Sam can’t see it. “So what you’re saying is I don’t have to bust down his door and grab a knife out of his hands.” Well, not that he would kill himself in the apartment. Castiel would never do that to anyone’s carpet.

“I think you should give him space, and be there for him when he needs it,” Sam says. It’s very, very reasonable.

“Thanks, Sammy,” Dean says.

“Any time. What are brothers for?” Sam says, and hangs up to go do lawyer things.

Dean decides to watch the door anyway.

\---

The thing about Castiel – well, _one_ of the things about Castiel – is that he’s always strange. He’s reliable in the way that Dean knows he’ll never fully understand him, reassuring in the way he unsettles people.

Dean is starting to think he understands Castiel. He watches him emerge from the bedroom, watches him look at things like they’re new and foreign to him, and Dean thinks, _I know that feeling_. He knows the way everything is confusing when the world returns.

He takes Sam’s advice, though. For the most part, Dean sits back and watches Castiel relearn the brave new world he’s found himself in, and hopes it won’t take Castiel as long to understand that the new world is the same as the old, just with new spaces that need filling.

Dean waits, and hopes he can help fill them.

\---

“I’m going to work tomorrow,” Castiel says. They’re sitting at Dean’s table eating take-out Chinese food, Lucifer still propped next to Castiel’s side. At least he’s not holding the handle constantly anymore, instead nimbly picking up food with his chopsticks. Dean can do that too, but he’s out of practice and it gives him a cramp in his hand, so he sticks with the provided plastic fork.

“Alright,” Dean says. “Want me to drive you?”

Castiel looks surprised, like he was ready for a fight, but Dean can see the moment he realizes all Dean’s previous paranoia about him leaving the apartment is gone. It’s pretty obvious, since he touches Lucifer’s handle again. “I’d like that, thank you. I’d need to leave the suitcase with you, though.”

“I can babysit,” Dean says, and pauses. “I have to warn you, Cas, you might not actually have a job anymore.”

“Zachariah wouldn’t fire me,” Castiel says, stabbing confidently at his kung pao shrimp. “I know too much.”

Well, Dean thinks a little more hysterically than he’ll ever admit, that isn’t an ominous turn of phrase at all.

\---

Dean realized that people die when he was very young, younger than even when his mother died. He wasn’t supposed to know, of course, because no matter who your kids are you want to protect them from the cold hard truths of the world for as long as you can.

It’s his first memory, actually. He remembers crying and wanting his mommy and daddy, and then there was a noise like a bang and the angry man in front of him was turning red and falling down. After that, he remembers at some point there was a lot of people wearing black and his mommy and daddy holding him close and warm, and feeling like nothing the least bit wrong had happened.

The years have taught him otherwise.

Dean is aware that he doesn’t think of killing and dying like your average Joe, that he’s more familiar with murder than he’s supposed to be comfortable with. He knows that the average man on the street doesn’t hear news stories about bad politicians and think, _it would be so much simpler if I could just shove a knife in his throat_. That was what Dean thought before his joyous four-month stint in a concrete hell, and afterwards he didn’t seem to think anything.

But now, he finds himself with a very strange philosophy: murder doesn’t solve problems because the dead can’t atone, but there are some people who just deserve to die.

Dean finds himself staring intently at the Dora the explorer suitcase after dropping Castiel off at work (and feeling like a really fucked up father while he did it, all _do you have your wallet? lunch money? don’t let any of the other kids make fun of you, and you tell me if they do_ ), and is glad he has the time to sit around with Lucifer.

“You know, I’m kind of glad I don’t know how you died,” he says to Dora, voice very quiet. “Because this way, I can imagine it however I want.”

Dora just keeps smiling, but Dean likes to imagine Lucifer’s ashes are sitting uncomfortably, churning.

\---

“Oh Jesus, this is…this is the right number, right?” says the jittery voice on Dean’s cell phone. “The guy the letter was for? Um. This is Chuck? God, okay, whoever you are, I think my neighbor has gone insane.”

Dean frowns, and it takes him a moment to sort through the clues the guy’s given him because there’s a strange banging noise in the background and Chuck keeps asking God to make whatever that banging is stop. “You’re Castiel’s neighbor,” Dean finally says. And when that sinks in, Dean finds himself just about running to his car, saying, “Just try to talk to him, Chuck, I’m on my way.”

“He’s not going to talk to me!” Chuck shouts.

“I will give you two thousand dollars if you get him to say more than five words to you,” Dean says.

There’s a pause that Dean barely even recognizes, he’s so intent on getting into his car, before Chuck returns and says, “Alright, I’m going in.”

“Good luck,” Dean says, and hangs up, because he knows better than to try and drive one-handed in a situation like this. And by ‘a situation like this’ he means driving forty miles an hour over the speed limit. His baby doesn’t let him down, though, roars right through the city and slashes through the streets like a bullet through a bloodstream. He parks in front of a fire hydrant and _does not care_ when the woman across the street walking her cat (and who does that anyway) gives him a dirty look, because he’s not even in the building and he can hear what Chuck was talking about on the phone.

It’s a banging sound that crashes out Castiel’s windows and echoes through the streets, a sound like a car crash, and Dean sprints his way up the stairs and to the still ruined door that is barely holding onto its hinges.

It’s chaos inside.

The usually tidy apartment is riddled with enormous holes, like the world’s largest Gatling gun tore through the walls, plaster leaving the floor looking like a hailstorm had accompanied it. The furniture is demolished, overturned and ripped apart. It’s like a one-man tornado had ripped through the mausoleum apartment.

“Cas!” Dean shouts, trying to walk carefully over the wreckage. “Castiel, you in here?”

“It’s not worth the money,” Chuck shouts frantically from the bedroom, and Dean barely has time to recognize the bedroom door is opening before the man runs out, nearly tripping on the plaster. When Dean peeks his head in, there’s nothing to see but wreckage even more extreme than the rest. The immaculate dark wood of the bed is splintered across the room, and it was done so violently that there’s jagged chunks embedded in the walls. The mattress look like someone had taken a butcher knife to it and stabbed it like a desperate murderer.

Dean thinks for a moment that maybe he should call Sam, that maybe he should call in the family to make sure nothing gets out of hand, but that screeching pounding noise draws him into the kitchen like some brutal dog whistle he’s been trained to obey.

The first glance he gets of Castiel is the stretch of his long tan coat, now covered in plaster and dust and undoubtedly destroyed, bunched along Castiel’s shoulders as he lifts a sledgehammer over his head and brings it down hard on one of the unusable stove’s burners. Dean watches the metal bend beneath the hammer with wide eyes, and notices the sweat and bloody new cuts on Castiel’s face, the way he only closes his eyes for safety when he brings the hammer down and debris flies apart. The man’s still wearing his tie, even if it’s swinging off him like it’s trying to escape of its own free will.

“Cas, you okay?” Dean asks, and takes a very cautious step into the kitchen. Castiel ignores him in favor of twisting just enough to ram the hammer through the microwave, and Dean barely has time to cover his own face as glass bursts apart and into the air. “ _Jesus_ , Cas, what-”

“I am _not_ okay,” Castiel shouts, but doesn’t look at him. If anything, his next swing is more deliberate, landing squarely in the center of the stove. The metal crumples with a tortured noise. “And I will _never_ be okay.”

“Hey, never say never,” Dean says, trying very hard to control his breathing and not look like he wants to tackle Castiel and take the sledgehammer away before he does serious damage to himself, be it body or brain. “You want to tell me about it?”

“ _No_ ,” Castiel growls, and smashes the glass front of the oven in, swinging the sledgehammer like it’s the croquet mallet from hell.

Dean takes a deep breath, and moves until he’s probably four feet away from Castiel and the sledgehammer, far enough away that Castiel hopefully won’t feel pressured but close enough that he might reconsider using the sledgehammer. “Come on, Cas. I just want to help.” When Castiel refuses to even look at him, instead picking a piece of glass out of the top of his hand, Dean adds, “Please?”

Castiel stops bashing the stove-oven-microwave monster for a moment, looking at Dean. He looks absolutely wrecked, in every way he possibly could. Glass and debris have given him small shallow cuts all over his body, his clothing and hair are in no better shape, and he looks lost and broken and furious that things have turned out this way. He is also shaking, Dean notices. Whether it’s adrenaline wearing off or shock or Dean doesn’t even know what, it’s a jarring sight.

“It didn’t change anything,” he says, voice dull, expression growing cold. “All that effort, and everything’s the same. I didn’t fix anything, I didn’t heal anything, I just.” His hands clench around the sledgehammer, and suddenly Dean’s getting glared at. “I am _not_ my brother, and I never will be.”

Dean doesn’t even know which brother he’s talking about. It might be Lucifer, and Castiel thinks he’ll turn into a psychopathic murderer. It might be Gabriel, who never seemed to care about any repercussions of whatever he did. It might be Raphael or Michael or Uriel or, hell, maybe he’s even talking about Anna. But for some reason, Dean’s pretty sure it’s Jimmy, because in the end, it always comes back to Jimmy Novak - the good, normal twin. The only brother Castiel really seems to have an insecurity complex about.

He takes a moment to think, to try and analyze the confused jumble Castiel has given him, and sighs when he realizes what’s happening here. “You thought killing Lucifer would make everything better,” he says.

Castiel doesn’t look at him, but he does nod, and he doesn’t bash anything else in with the sledgehammer. Not that there’s much left to destroy – the stove is a pile of twisted metal at this point, frame irreparably bent.

Dean clears his throat. “Well, I guess I’m the voice of experience here,” he says, and that makes Castiel look at him, frowning in that way Dean knows means he needs more information. He takes a second to figure out how to try and explain the basics of his father’s quest to avenge their mother, of Sam’s brutal retribution on the family that took Jess from him. “My brother and father each had the person they loved most taken from them. And when they hunted down the bastards who did it, at the end of the day, it didn’t take away the hurt from that loss.”

“I thought it would go away,” Castiel says, and shakes his head. He drops the sledgehammer, and it hits the floor with a heavy thud, like the end of something. “I thought it would fix me.”

“There’s nothing to fix,” Dean states.

Castiel glares at him. “I _know_ I’m strange, Dean, you don’t have to pretend-”

“I like the strangeness of you!” Dean shouts, because he can see where this is going, and he refuses to let Castiel keep on thinking there’s something wrong with him. “So you’re messed up. I don’t _care_. I’m messed up too, would you tell me I need to change to be like everyone else?”

Castiel frowns. “Why would I do that?”

“Exactly!” Dean says. “You’re _perfect_ , Cas. If you were like your brother, I wouldn’t care about you nearly as much as I do.”

Honestly, if Castiel was like his twin, Dean probably wouldn’t even remember his name.

And the way Castiel is looking at him now, like he’s some perplexing piece of modern art he’s trying to puzzle the meaning out of while the entire museum is burning down, Dean just. He can’t take it. He takes a deep breath and says, “I’m going to hug you.”

Castiel doesn’t stop him, even if he looks like Dean’s declared an intention to strap dynamite to him instead. He has plenty of time to do it – Dean has to take two steps forward before he can drag Castiel forward a bit and wrap his arms around him. White dust left from massacred plaster bursts off his clothes when Dean touches him, and that’s the only reason Dean closes his eyes. The only one.

He feels like he’s hugging a very warm, very dirty tree at first, because Castiel just stands there, rigid and uncomfortable. Dean still can’t bring himself to do the right thing and let him go, though, not when Castiel’s saying such stupid things. Instead, he holds on tighter.

He nearly jerks back when Castiel’s arms tentatively move around him. It takes more effort than Dean ever thought it would to let him figure out what he’s comfortable with. He doesn’t hug Dean, though, not outright, but Castiel’s hands end up fisted in the fabric over Dean’s shoulder blades, head hanging against Dean’s shoulder, like he’s so tired he can’t even hold himself up anymore.

“What do I do now?” Castiel asks, and for one hysterical moment Dean thinks – but no. No. Maybe someday, _maybe_ , but now is _not_ the time.

Still. “You’re gonna have to be more specific than that, Cas,” Dean says. “But the answer is usually ‘what you want’. That probably works for this, too.”

Castiel sighs, and Dean tries very hard to ignore the fact he can _feel_ the heat of that single heavy breath against his skin. It takes him a moment to speak, though, and when he does…well. Dean certainly wasn’t expecting him to say, “I’d like to speak to your family.”

The _other_ voices of experience, Dean realizes. The ones on Castiel’s side of the fence. “We can do that,” Dean says, and he knows this is the part where he’s supposed to let go, but. Well. Castiel isn’t letting go either. Then again, he probably doesn’t know there’s kind of a time limit for hugs without them getting uncomfortable, but hey, they’re already miles away from that precipice. “You going to be okay, Cas?”

“Not any time soon,” Castiel says. But instead of understanding that was a closing hug statement, he actually gets _closer_ , fists loosening so he can actively wrap his arms around Dean. “Thank you for being yourself, Dean.”

“I never feel like myself when I’m with you,” Dean blurts out because _oh dear god_. He’s glad he manages to keep his stupid lips from opening up and saying something like _you make me feel like a better man than I really am_ or any equally horrible and damning clichéd statement. “Um. You done hugging?”

“No,” Castiel says.

Well, shit.

“Okay,” Dean says, and tries to imagine cold Alaska beaches that face an ocean of deep blue that stretches on forever, but that’s just a reminder of Castiel’s eyes, which is because Dean is _pathetic_ , so. Desert it is. “Are you going back to work?”

“No,” Castiel says. “I think I’ll quit. It’s not as if I need the money.” There’s a pause, and then, “You’re very comfortable.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Dean says.

“We should do this again some time,” Castiel says.

“Sure,” Dean says, helpless, and that’s it, it’s either move forward or move back, and since forward is _not_ an option when it is Castiel and he’s recently been in a state of emotional upheaval that had him bashing his apartment in with a sledgehammer, he drops his arms and steps back. Castiel lets him go, of course, but it makes him frown. And it’s Dean’s least favorite frown, of course. It’s the disappointed frown, the one that reminds him of well-behaved children who’ve had their favorite toy taken away. “Let me call my brother and you can talk to him and my dad, alright?”

“That would be nice,” Castiel says, tilting his head to the side, considering, and Dean can’t take that right now. He turns to look at what’s left of the stove – a vaguely square-shaped lump of dark metal and knobs – and pulls out his phone.

He’s so intent on calling Sammy that he almost misses it when Castiel quietly picks the sledgehammer back up and walks out of the kitchen, and then out of the apartment entirely.

For some reason, Dean knows not to follow.

\---

Dora is gone when he gets back to the apartment. So is Castiel.

His coat, however, is slung over the corner of the couch like a placeholder, like some sort of bookmark telling Dean to _hold that thought_.

So, Dean waits, and does his best to not panic about. Well. Everything.

\---

Dean vaguely recalls a time when he was the solid rock of solidarity and rocking that Sam could cling to when his emotions got tumultuous and pubescent. He kind of misses those days, because more often than not Dean calls Sam for the singular purpose of being able to cling to him and be told what he needs to hear, which is usually –

“Stop being an idiot, Dean,” Sam says.

“Well that’s really helpful, Sam, thanks,” Dean says, which is actually only eighty percent sarcasm.

“What did you think I was going to say?” Sam asks. “Dude, you already know what I’m going to say before you even call me. I think you do this just to whine at me.”

That might be true, but Dean’s not going to admit it. “You still haven’t told me when works for you,” he says instead. “Sooner’s better than later, I think, but I don’t know when he’ll show up at the apartment.”

“We have cameras at the graveyard,” Sam points out.

“I’m not going to watch him bury his brother, Sam,” Dean says, and it’s true. He’s well aware he has horrible questionable stalker tendencies when it comes to Castiel (even though they’re for his own good), but there are some things he still knows are private, and he’s willing to fight to keep them that way. “Are you coming over or not?”

Sam sighs. “Yeah, I’m coming as soon as I can get Dad out of the office. He might not be in a good mood, though.”

Dean winces. “Bad news with the Kyoto deal?”

“Worse,” Sam says. “PR office.”

“Ouch,” Dean says.

“Yeah,” Sam says. “We’ll be there. I know he’s busy, but. You _do_ know we care about your boyfriend, right?”

“Not my boyfriend,” Dean says, but can’t help the relief and strange feeling of warmth at the thought of them liking Castiel. “But I’m glad.”

“So are we,” Sam says, and hangs up.

\---

Dean likes to think that his relationship with his father is pretty normal. He was hugged as a child, he was taught right from wrong (well, kind of ), he was taught how to tie his own shoes and brush his teeth and his dad walked him to his first day of school and everything. Dean knows what his dad does for a living because that’s what Dean will probably end up doing someday, and he has no problem with it. It got kind of frustrating when he was a kid and trying to explain what his father did when everyone else’s dad was a doctor or a fireman and Dean had to tackle _crime lord_ without putting the _crime_ part in. He usually ended up described as something like a very angry landlord.

But the point is, Dean’s dad has been there for him. Not all the time, and whenever September rolls around he and Sam know to hold down the fort and wait for the seasonal depression that follows the anniversary to ebb, but eleven (okay, ten) months out of the year, his dad has been there for him. All Dean really had to do was try his hardest to make his dad proud, and the minute Dean really understood his job was to take care of Sammy, and that his eventual job would be to take care of the whole family when his dad couldn’t do it anymore, they got along just fine.

None of that explains why this meeting-like _thing_ is getting Dean’s mind and heart tied up in complicated knots the minute his dad walks through the door, still wearing a strict navy suit that screams business meeting, Sam flanking him and looking tired and rumpled, still lugging along his lawyer briefcase.

“Don’t you dare thank me for coming,” his dad says before Dean can even say hello. There’s a strange moment there where his dad looks like he’s going to say something else, but takes a deep breath and manages a tight smile, stretching out his back. “This got me out of a hell of a meeting. I should be thanking your boy, not the other way around.”

“He’s not here yet,” Dean says. “I think he’s still at the cemetery, but he should be coming soon.”

“He can take his time,” his dad says, and loosens his tie. “Me, I’m hoping he’s baked some cookies.”

“Cas just got back from Armenia, he’s been too jetlagged to really bake things,” Dean says, wondering for a moment how exactly this is his life.

“That’s a damn shame,” his dad says, and sits on the couch next to Castiel’s coat.

“I kind of liked that puffy thing he made,” Sam says, frowning and sitting in Dean’s second armchair, leaning forward. “Was it a soufflé?”

“When did he bake these things for you?” Dean demands, because seriously, how did they get a Castiel-made soufflé and he didn’t?

“When you were beat to hell in that soup kitchen of yours,” his dad says. “When he wasn’t in your room, he was baking.” He leans back into the sofa. “We had a lot of good conversations while he was making cookies.”

Dean thinks, for one horrific moment, that his brother and dad are implying something, but all Dean can really puzzle out of their words is that Castiel bakes things. Which is true. And that they talked while he baked things and Dean was busted up in his bed. Which is also probably true. None of these things make him feel safe and easy with the upcoming conversation, though.

He clears his throat, and sits in his usual armchair. “Listen, Cas is still pretty shaken up-” he begins, but his father holds up a hand, cutting Dean off without making a sound. “Yes?”

“I think you should leave for a while,” he says.

Sam nods, and says, “That might be a good idea.” When Dean gapes at them, Sam sighs. “Look, you know what we’re going to be talking about. And he didn’t want to talk about it with you. So it’d probably be a lot more comfortable for Cas if you weren’t here, okay?”

Dean doesn’t like it, but he nods. “But you’ll call if he wants me around, right?”

“Of course,” Sam says, looking offended at the thought he might _not_. “But-”

“You should lock your door,” Castiel says, and Dean jerks out of the chair, staring at him. He’s just as cut up and dusty as before, but now there’s the addition of graveyard dirt on everything below his knees. Including Dean’s previously pristine carpet, but who cares, he can just buy a new one. Castiel sighs. “Hello, Dean. Sam, John, it’s nice to see you again.”

“Glad you came back,” Dean’s dad says, and Dean stares at him because dear god, the man sounds almost affectionate. Fond, that’s the word. Like Castiel has done something his dad approves of.

That must have been one hell of a soufflé.

“I’m going to head out for a while,” Dean says. It makes Castiel frown, but he doesn’t protest or say that he wants Dean there, so he figures Sam was right and that this is a conversation best left to the people who’ve loved and lost.

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel says, and Dean just shoots him an easy smile that he hopes is reassuring before stepping out of his apartment.

And he locks the door behind him because really, Castiel does have a good point sometimes.

\---

Everyone has their own insecurity complexes. Dean’s pretty sure he has his own figured out – Sam’s smarter, bigger, friendlier, more independent; his father is great at his job and Dean will never be able to take care of the family as well as John Winchester – and he’s pretty sure he’s figuring Castiel’s out, too.

Mostly, it’s the twin thing. He thinks he’s supposed to be like his twin, or at least _want_ to be like his twin. Castiel thinks he’s supposed to be normal, which is so far from the truth that Dean could weep. A normal Castiel would be a _boring_ Castiel. A normal Castiel would be easy to understand and wouldn’t feel like a worthwhile struggle to just understand why he thinks something ridiculous, or figuring out where Dean got lost in translation.

Dean’s fully aware that one of the reasons he loves Castiel is that there is not a single person like him. Castiel is that single impossible asymmetrical snowflake, that rare winning lottery ticket.

And yes, Dean has some insecurity complexes about Castiel. Mostly it’s the fact Castiel doesn’t really _get_ the whole family business thing, and that when he finally does, when that comes crashing down on him, Dean doesn’t know if Castiel would think he’s worth the risk. Hell, Dean _knows_ he isn’t worth the risk. He’d get Cas killed, he’d be a waste of Castiel’s time, Castiel could do infinitely better than Dean but Dean’s selfish enough to want him anyway.

Castiel Novak makes Dean feel like a spoiled whiny child playing with dynamite, because Castiel went through hell and lost everything he’d ever known and still manages to be a good person. Dean went through a different kind of hell, and all he did when he got out of it was stop caring. And then there was Castiel, strange and beautiful and so messed up that he made Dean feel well-adjusted and able to help, and Dean cared again.

He doesn’t know where he’d be if he never met Castiel.

And he has no idea where he’ll be when Castiel decides to leave again.

\---

It’s Castiel who calls him after the Bereaved Mafioso Alliance conversation, voice hesitant and undoubtedly heralding a catastrophe in the making when he says, “You should come home so we can talk.” He pauses. “I’m making dinner.”

Making, not baking, Dean notes. So that’ll be interesting. “Okay,” he says. “Want me to pick anything up?”

“I’m _making dinner_ , Dean,” he says. “I just want you here in the near future.”

And that should not send warm fuzzies crawling all over his skin, but it _does_ , because Dean is absolutely hopeless. “Then I’ll be there in the near future for you,” Dean says.

It’s an easy drive back to his apartment, because Dean had not-so-subtly been making a point of staying in the neighborhood, just in case Sam called and they needed him or something. Unlikely, but stranger things have happened. Castiel’s still cooking when he walks in from the garage, staring down a thankfully small pot of homemade soup.

“Do you have any allergies?” Castiel asks.

Dean shrugs. “Not that I know of. How was the talk?”

Castiel shifts, looking more awkward than Dean can remember him being in quite a while. “I’m grateful to Sam and John for taking the time to speak with me,” he says, and suddenly his spine straightens and Dean’s looking at a fully alert Castiel, full of a militaristic precision. “We have things to discuss.”

Dean blinks at him for a moment, because that’s some emotional whiplash if ever there was some. “Sure,” he says, and sits himself down at the kitchen table. “What’s up?”

“I would like to be in a long-term committed relationship with you,” Castiel says.

Dean frowns, because that must have gotten lost in translation again. “What?”

“Romantically,” Castiel says, and dear god, he’s actually _blushing_. “I’m…what do you want me to say? I’ve never tried to have this conversation before, Dean, am I meant to kneel?”

“Wait, hold on,” Dean says, holding up a hand to stop Castiel because _this needs analysis_ , what the hell. He’s just glad he’s sitting down, because he feels queasy, like he’s been punched five times too many. “Are you.” Dean stares at him, trying to calm down the squealing pre-teen girl in his head and figure this out, because it’s _kind of important_. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

Castiel looks like he’s actually confusing _himself_ , frown a little bit horrified and face reddening by the second as he says, “Yes, I think? Preferably with me moving in?”

Dean had kind of figured that was happening no matter what, since Castiel had broken _everything ever_ in Jimmy’s apartment, so he takes a deep, long breath. “Okay. You know you’re welcome here whenever, dating or not, right?” When Castiel just nods, Dean says, “As in you don’t have to be dating me to move in. You get to do that no matter what.”

“I understand that, Dean,” Castiel snaps. “You’re welcome to just say no.”

“Why the hell would I say no?!” Dean shouts. “I’m just trying to make sure we’re saying the same thing here, Cas! It’s kind of important!”

“ _Fine_ ,” Castiel says. “I’m trying very hard to say what I mean, in simple terms. What do you need elaborated?”

“Do you really like me?” Dean blurts out, eyes wide, and Castiel is back to staring at him. “I mean. I just. Is this new? Because it seems new, and I’m glad and all, but if this isn’t actually what I think it is I might have to go jump off my balcony in about five minutes.”

Because Castiel had said _long-term committed relationship with you_ and that. And the kneeling offer. And. This is not how Dean had ever imagined this working, but it’s so perfectly truly _Castiel_ that he could weep.

Castiel frowns. “I should have attempted some sort of…romantic gesture,” he mutters, and turns back to the soup. “But to answer your questions, yes, I really love you, and no, this isn’t new.”

“Oh,” Dean says, and clears his throat because he is _way_ to embarrassingly choked up for this, and that stupid voice in the back of his head is going _oh my god oh my god oh my god please yes oh my god oh my god_ and refuses to stop. “Okay, so. Um. When did you want to go out?”

And Castiel looks confused again.

“On a date,” Dean elaborates. When that doesn’t seem to help, he takes another deep breath. “You usually do some sort of activity.” And then Dean, because he has no tact and sometimes it takes him more time to really connect the dots, particularly when the dots are Castiel-shaped, finds himself gaping and saying, “Holy shit, you’ve never been on a date?”

“I never had the inclination to actively court someone,” Castiel says, tense and defensive for a moment, snapping the burner’s dial to OFF and putting what looks like a very green soup into two bowls. “And from what I’ve understood, the point of dating is to get to know someone, which we could skip entirely.”

“That’s the main part of it, yeah, but it’s also supposed to be fun,” Dean says and _oh dear god he gets to go on a date with Castiel_. He feels like he’s vibrating at the thought, watching Castiel move towards the table with soup in hands, and Dean mentally slaps himself - has to keep sharp. He always has to when it comes to important conversations with Castiel, and this one is _definitely_ in that category. “And it helps you see if you’re, you know, compatible.”

Castiel sets the soup down on the table, turns to look him in the eye, and says, “Dean, trust me. We’re compatible.”

And then he leans down, and kisses Dean.

The thing about kisses is that you can see them coming. It’s like there’s a time dilation field around first kisses, like it takes twenty times longer for your lips to meet when it’s your first touch of _something more_.

With Castiel, it feels like it takes hours and hours, all of which are, on Dean’s end, full of absolute _panic_. He hasn’t brushed his teeth since that morning, his lips are chapped, he can’t remember if he ate anything garlicky for lunch and if he did he’s _screwed_ and Castiel will never want to kiss him ever again (unless he actually likes garlic, in which case they’re cool, but really how likely is that?), did he shave? Does Castiel _want_ him to shave? What if the angle is awkward? Oh god, Dean’s going to miss, isn’t he, he’s going to end up kissing Castiel on the chin or the nose or the cheek or something – and if it’s the cheek he might think it’s some sort of brush off, some sort of _I love you but not like that_ sort of statement and then Dean will _die_ , and Castiel’s moving forward, one hand gently brushing his jaw and the side of his neck (he should have shaved closer! He should have made sure he washed behind his ears this morning! _Something is going to go wrong!_ ), oh god oh god oh god it’s all about to go to hell, he’s going to miss or press too hard or not press hard enough and then, and _then_ –

And then, it’s _perfect_.

It’s soft and loving and Dean wishes he could wrap himself up in the feel of it, wants to kiss him forever and make him forget anything bad has ever happened in their lives. They do have to breathe, though, and Dean doesn’t mind ending the kiss nearly as much when he sees the small, happy smile on Castiel’s face.

“I think we’re compatible,” Castiel says, and Dean is helpless to do anything but smile back and swear down to his soul that he would follow this man absolutely anywhere.

\---

Dean plans what Castiel takes to calling their ‘superfluous dates’, because Castiel doesn’t seem to care enough or know enough activities to plan them. And yeah, Dean can see what he means about it being a little superfluous, since they already live together and sleep together and eat together and are more or less blissfully, bizarrely not-quite-married (but the family is working on that) in less than a week.

Dating the man who is already more or less your husband is actually pretty fun. There’s no awkward spaces between them, no question of whether or not it’d be okay to hold his hand or kiss him in the back of a movie theater, because it is _always_ welcome. Castiel treats every touch like some new, exciting gift, like Dean is giving him something he never wanted but always secretly needed.

Sam sends them fruit baskets every week that Dean doesn’t call him to whine about being in love with Castiel, and Castiel makes fruity cookies with the contents, so everyone seems to be content with the situation. And Sam doesn’t mind the ‘I’m so happy I don’t know what to do with myself’ calls nearly as much, and his dad seems to actively enjoy Castiel’s company, so Dean thinks that, to the amazement of just about everyone in the entire world, the Winchester family might actually be happy.

Well, mostly.

Castiel Novak will always be strange, and, according to the Bereaved Mafioso Alliance, he will always have good days and bad days and the times in between. He hasn’t set foot in the bashed in apartment since he walked out with sledgehammer in hand, and Dean is starting to think he never will again. Castiel quit his job, but it’s fairly obvious he has no idea what he wants to do now. He comes to meetings sometimes, and always has…really surprisingly valuable input, actually, and saved them a good three million dollars in one sentence alone, but that isn’t who he is.

Sometimes, Castiel seems well and truly lost. Dean can bring him back, though, and every time he does, Castiel gives him that same soft, happy smile, like it’s the first time he’s seen Dean in years and he’s so glad to have gotten the opportunity.

They’re figuring it out, though. Castiel takes up art, first pottery and then painting and finally sculpture until he decides that isn’t what he wants to do. He gets his pilot’s license again, which is fun until Castiel reveals his fighter pilot tendencies while he’s flying them to Morocco and does nothing but be completely unsympathetic while Dean vomits for a billion hours afterwards. Castiel opens another soup kitchen using his own money (which includes all eight of the Novak children’s trust funds, since he’s officially the last kid standing, and the combined amount leaves Castiel’s income rivaling Dean’s, and also a whole lot of questions about Mr. Novak), and that, at least, seems to always make Castiel happy.

Dean’s okay with the aimlessness Castiel gets sometimes, though. Dean knows that feeling, and he knows he’ll be there to help Castiel get back on his feet whenever he stumbles. He’s in this for as long as the long-term committed relationship can last, and hopefully longer, after the terminology changes a little.

They aren’t happily ever after, but Dean knows without a doubt that, together, they’re happy, and will be for a very long time.

\---

If you were to ask Castiel what the greatest invention known to mankind is, he would tell you it’s the bucket. It holds things, it helps move things, it stores things, and it makes life easier in ways most people don’t even consider, not to mention that it evolved into the bowl and vase and pot and so many other things.

He says this for two reasons. The first is that he thinks it is true – the bucket is essential and makes the human world and civilization in general function. The second is that Castiel does not doubt for a single second that there is no way that anyone on the planet could _invent_ something as brilliant, amazing, and truly _great_ as Dean, who Castiel thinks is undoubtedly the most wonderful creation mankind will ever know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, that only took _two years_ to write.


End file.
